- 


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YHAfiGU  M 


THE    ISLE    OF    LIFE 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

A  ROMANCE 


BY 
STEPHEN   FRENCH  WHITMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "PREDESTINED" 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW    YORK     :      :      :     :      :      1913 


^0 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  March,  1913 


LIBRARY 


THE    ISLE    OF    LIFE 


RAHGl. 


LOAN  UI5RARY 

(.Of;    A  Nap 


CHAPTER  I 

SEBASTIAN  MAURE  awoke  to  great  lethargy  of 
brain  and  body.  His  eyeballs  burned.  His  skin 
felt  dry  and  shrivelled.  His  throat  was  parched,  and 
irritated  by  countless  cigarettes.  He  began  to  cough, 
weakly,  yet  with  sufficient  force  to  make  his  head  feel 
as  if  it  were  going  to  explode.  Repressing  a  groan, 
he  rolled  over  on  his  back,  gazed  at  the  ceiling,  and 
tried  to  remember  where  he  was. 

The  previous  evening,  on  reaching  Rome,  he  had 
alighted  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  bathed,  changed  into 
evening  dress,  and  set  out  for  the  Corso.  There,  hi 
front  of  Aragno's  Cafe,  he  had  been  welcomed  back 
by  Marchese  Tito  di  Torredidone,  a  young  Sicilian 
officer  of  the  Genoa  Cavalry,  and  by  Andreas  Ro- 
manovitch  Tchernaieff,  an  attache  of  the  Russian 
Embassy.  With  these  two  he  had  gone  upstairs  to 
the  Hunt  Club.  They  had  dined  there.  Afterward, 
they  had  played  interminable  card-games  in  the 
outer  room.  Later,  they  had  certainly  met  some 
actresses  or  opera-singers  for  supper — perhaps  in  the 
Regina  Restaurant.  .  .  . 

His  memory  exhausted  at  this  point,  he  began  to 
inspect  his  present  surroundings,  which  he  was  not 
conscious  of  having  seen  before. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 


The  room,  its  ceiling  unusually  high,  was  furnished 
in  jonquil-yellow  and  mahogany.  Everything  was 
expensive-looking,  ultra-modern,  chic. 

Whose  room  could  it  be?  No  doubt  jt  was  the 
owner's  sleeping-suit  that  he  was  wearing,  a  suit  of 
rose-colored  silk  so  tight  for  him  that  the  buttons, 
and  half  the  seams  as  well,  had  given  way. 

Abruptly,  despite  the  acute  discomfort  of  exertion, 
he  got  up  and  approached  the  door.  On  the  way,  he 
paused  before  a  mirror  to  look  at  his  reflection. 

He  saw  a  tall,  heavy,  black-haired  man  apparently 
more  than  forty.  The  swarthy  face,  formerly  quite 
handsome,  now  rather  damaged  by  excesses,  still  bore 
that  stamp  of  "race"  which  bodily  debasement  never 
really  obliterates.  But  this  countenance,  in  spite  of 
its  material  degeneracy,  was  calm,  strong,  and  even 
formidable.  Those  were  the  lineaments  of  an  indi- 
vidual whose  physical  impairment  was  certainly  not 
due  to  weakness  of  the  will.  It  was  a  visage  sar- 
donically intelligent,  unillumined  by  conscience,  yet 
filled  with  the  self-sufficiency  of  one  who  expects  and 
asks  nothing,  of  this  world  or  the  next. 

When  he  had  found  himself  hardly  in  worse  shape 
than  usual,  Sebastian  Maure  entered  the  adjoining 
room. 

This  apartment  was  a  study,  luxuriously  furnished. 
Bookcases  lined  the  walls.  A  variety  of  precious 
bric-a-brac  was  strewn  about.  Before  a  stone  fire- 
place, on  a  scarlet-leather  couch,  a  man  was  sleeping 
under  a  fur-lined  overcoat.  He  was  small,  thin,  and 
pale,  with  a  bald  forehead,  a  snub  nose,  and  a  forked 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  3 

beard  of  brownish-red.  As  Sebastian  Maure  set 
foot  across  the  door-sill,  with  one  jerk  this  person  sat 
erect,  staring  wildly.  Then,  reassured,  he  dropped 
back  with  a  hysterical  laugh.  It  was  Andreas  Ro- 
manovitch,  the  Russian,  who  exclaimed,  in  fluent 
English : 

"  Do  you  mind  handing  me  a  cigarette?  The  silver 
box  on  the  desk  is  full  of  them.  Brandy  in  the  tan- 
talus-case, under  the  Venus  Anadyomene.  Or  if  you 
prefer  an  absinthe  frappe,  ring  the  bell.  Ring  it  any- 
way. I  want  one  myself." 

"So  I  came  home  and  put  you  out  of  your  bed?'' 

"Bah!  I  was  tired  sleeping  in  it.  Sometimes, 
when  I  come  in,  I  am  bored  horribly  at  the  thought 
of  lying  there  again.  The  other  night  I  slept  in  a 
taxicab  running  back  and  forth  between  Rome  and 
Hadrian's  Villa.  I  hate  repetition.  That's  what  we 
have  to  fight  in  life — repetition,  satiety,  ennui.  But, 
alas,  it  gets  us  in  the  end,  when  we've  tried  every- 
thing, and  tired  of  it." 

"How  old  are  you,  Andreas?" 

"  Thirty-two.    And  you?  " 

"Thirty-six." 

"Really?  Then  we  both  look  ten  years  older 
than  we  are.  Especially  this  morning." 

An  elderly  man-servant  entered,  a  bowl  of  ice  in 
hand.  Without  orders,  he  began  to  mix  two  drinks. 
Andreas,  enlivened  by  the  rattle  of  the  silver  shaker, 
jumped  up  to  pace  the  floor.  Mauve  silk  pajamas 
flapped  round  his  slight  and  bony  frame. 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  inquired  of  the  servant. 


4  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Two,  Excellency." 

"Je  mehr  desto  besser — the  later  the  better!  For- 
tunately for  Russia,  this  is  Sunday.  In  an  Embassy, 
Sebastian,  one  doesn't  work  on  Sunday.  I  tell  you 
that  because  you  know  nothing,  yourself,  about  the 
processes  of  honest  labor.  It's  true  that  from  time 
to  time  you  set  up  to  be  a  writer  of  poisonous  ro- 
mances. Probably  you  might  even  be  a  man  of 
letters  in  earnest,  if  you  were  poor,  and  the  inhabi- 
tant of  an  island  without  ladies,  gambling-tables,  or 
boats,  and  where  the  fruits  were  incapable  of  fer- 
mentation. As  it  is,  you  command  too  many  ex- 
quisitely decorated  distractions.  Pardon  my  Ger- 
man, but  this  animal  of  a  valet  has  the  impudence 
to  understand  both  French  and  English." 

"And  a  little  German,  too,  Excellency,"  vouch- 
safed the  servant,  in  respectful  tones,  while  going 
out. 

Andreas  Romanovitch  drank  his  absinthe  imper- 
turbably,  then  continued: 

"We  must  send  him  to  the  Grand  for  some  of  your 
clothes." 

"My  man  is  there." 

"Ah,  of  course.  Still  the  Greek?  If  I  recall  that 
face,  he'll  end  by  knifing  you  some  day,  when  your 
wallet's  extra  fat.  By  the  way,  about  how  much 
did  you  have  in  it  last  night?  You  lost  two  thou- 
sand lire  at  ecarte,  and  took  Tito's  I.  O.  U.  for  fifteen 
hundred.  The  supper  was  two  hundred  lire:  I  owe 
you  half.  You  gave  up  your  signet-ring  to  the 
blonde  soprano  from  the  Costanzi,  the  almost  incom- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  5 

parable  Fiammetta.  If  it's  a  relic,  I'll  get  it  back 
for  you — she  happens  at  the  moment  to  be  fond  of 
me.  Why,  say  I,  when  I  look  at  myself  in  broad 
daylight,  God  only  knows !  Are  you  aware  that  you 
made  me  violently  jealous  at  supper?  You  told  her 
she  was  the  reincarnation  of  Poppaea  Sabina.  You 
wanted  to  take  her  immediately  to  Florence,  and 
compare  her  to  the  bust  in  the  Uffizzi." 

"How  do  you  remember  all  this?" 

"I  sipped  a  mild  sauterne  punch.  You  poured 
down  a  mixture  of  absinthe,  anisette,  and  brandy.  I 
was  no  more  than  gay.  But  you  were  quite  terrible, 
with  your  white,  gloomy  face  brooding  over  the 
table,  illuminated  now  and  then  by  some  wild 
thought  as  if  by  a  flash  of  lightning.  You  reminded 
me  of  a  daimonic  Beethoven,  dreaming,  on  the  edge 
of  the  bottomless  pit,  of  awful  symphonies.  Do  you 
mind  my  asking  if  you  really  enjoyed  yourself?  " 

"If  I  don't  enjoy  doing  a  thing,  I'm  not  apt  to  do 
it." 

"  Well,  every  one  to  his  little  mannerisms.  For  my 
part,  I  always  sing  naughty  chansonnettes,  and  want 
to  kiss  somebody.  I'll  match  you  for  first  chance  at 
the  tub." 

"After  you.  And  see  how  many  minutes  you  can 
keep  your  head  under  water." 

Andreas  Romanovitch  clacked  his  tongue,  shed  his 
mauve  pajamas,  and  skipped  into  the  bath-room. 

When  finally  he  emerged,  teeth  chattering,  he  in- 
quired: 

"  May  one  ask  how  long  you  propose  to  grace  our 
flattered  circles?" 


6  THE  JSLE  OF  LIFE 

"That  depends.    How  is  Rome,  this  season?" 

"Not  bad,  in  our  set.  Every  one  is  entertaining 
conscientiously.  Also,  the  hotels  are  full  of  pretty 
foreigners — the  moths  round  the  flame !  I  make  an 
exception.  Do  you  know  a  Miss  Bellamy,  a  com- 
patriot of  yours,  if  a  chronic  expatriate  may  be  said 
to  have  them?  A  great  heiress.  And  more.  One 
of  your  uncrowned  American  princesses.  She  re- 
mains one  even  here,  in  Rome,  parbleu!  and  I  doubt, 
despite  the  cynics,  if  there's  a  more  inexorable  ma- 
chinery in  all  Europe  for  testing  blood.  Her  money, 
of  course,  would  set  her  right  at  once  with  our  cos- 
mopolitan crowd;  but  she  has  quite  as  many  friends 
in  the  Holy  of  Holies.  And  beautiful?  Helen  of 
Troy  was  certainly  over-estimated.  Night  before 
last,  I  waltzed  with  this  wonder,  and  proposed,  was 
refused,  and  told  her  that  I  was  going  home  to  kill 
myself.  But  something  or  other  put  it  out  of  my 
mind.  And  when  I  woke  in  the  morning,  there  was 
your  Poppaea  Sabina  at  the  telephone,  to  tell  me 
that  Ki-ki  was  in  a  frightful  way  from  eating  Roque- 
fort cheese.  Without  mentioning  names,  I  asked  her 
advice:  should  I  kill  myself,  or  not?  She  said  no. 
I'm  a  weak  fellow  where  the  sex  is  concerned.  So 
here  I  stand.  But  when  I  meet  Miss  Bellamy 
again,  how  the  deuce  am  I  going  to  explain  my 
presence?" 

"What  is  this  Miss  Bellamy  in  Rome  for?"  Sebas- 
tian Maure  inquired,  while  covering  a  yawn. 

"To  break  hearts,  I  should  say.  Hearts  of  all 
nationalities.  Even  English.  At  the  Grand,  there's 
a  young  British  soldier  on  furlough,  a  lieutenant  of 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  7 

cavalry,  stationed  in  Egypt.  He  has  ramrods  sewn 
into  the  backs  of  all  his  coats,  and  no  more  expression 
than  my  Copenhagen- ware  grenadier.  But  he's  fol- 
lowed her  here  from  Cairo.  However,  one  may  be 
fairly  easy  on  that  score.  He's  only  the  younger 
brother  of  the  Earl  of  Lemster." 

For  a  while  Sebastian  Maure  said  nothing.  At 
last,  clearing  his  throat,  he  uttered: 

"  It  just  happens  that  the  Earl  of  Lemster's  come 
down  with  an  incurable  disease.  In  London  they're 
giving  him  about  six  months  more." 

"Accidente!" 

Aghast,  the  Russian  assumed  a  camel's-hair  bath- 
robe and  an  eye-glass.  Sebastian  raised  his  heavy 
brows. 

"That  turns  the  scale  in  his  favor,  you  think?" 

"No,  no.  We  do  her  an  injury.  If  you  knew 
her- 

"In  fact,  I  believe  I  met  her  once,  somewhere  or 
other." 

"And?" 

"I  seem  to  remember  what's  called  a  saintly  face, 
reconciled  somehow  to  a  Paris-made  figure." 

Andreas  Romanovitch  became  serious,  and 
younger-looking. 

"She  is  good,"  he  said,  simply.  "She  is  beautiful 
inside  as  well  as  out.  When  you  see  that  girl,  her 
clear  gaze,  her  pure  lips,  and  the  light  that  shines 
through  her  face,  all  your  sordidly  acquired  thoughts 
drop  away  like  a  garment  of  stale  rags,  and  you're 
clothed  again  in  the  ideals  of  youth.  If  I  might  go 


8  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

through  life  with  such  an  angel,  I  could  become  a 
decent  sort." 

"Now  you  are  really  entertaining." 

"Do  you  think  a  good  woman  can't  reform  a 
man?"  ' 

"  So  you  want  to  be  reformed?  " 

"By  her,  yes." 

"Precisely.  In  your  heart,  you  want  to  be 
teacher,  not  pupil." 

"Good  Heavens,"  cried  Andreas,  flushing,  "has  it 
never  been  revealed  to  you  that  pure  virtue  is  in- 
corruptible?" 

"In  the  first  place,  among  mortals — and  I  know 
nothing  of  any  better  species — there  is  no  such  thing 
as  pure  virtue.  In  the  second  place,  no  mortal  virtue 
is  incorruptible." 

"What  a  wretch!  His  thoughts  blight  whatever 
they  touch!" 

"The  truth  is  often  fatal." 

"The  truth!  I  shall  say  a  little  prayer  that  some 
day  you  find  it!" 

"You  still  go  to  church,  Andreas?" 

"Certainly.     And  often  weep  before  the  Cross." 

"Why  there,  particularly?" 

Andreas  went  into  the  bedchamber,  and  threw  him- 
self on  the  bed. 

"Go  take  your  tub,"  he  shouted.  "Long  ago  I 
gave  up  reading  your  cursed  books.  Now  I  sha'n't 
even  talk  to  you  any  longer." 

"It's  always  those  not  sure  of  their  faith  who  have 
to  close  their  ears  to  heretics,"  the  other  remarked. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  9 

y 

He  stripped  the  split  pajamas  from  his  big  frame,  at 
once  herculean  and  soft,  and  entered  the  bath- 
room. 

When  the  water  was  as  hot  as  he  could  bear,  he 
lay  down  in  the  tub,  wedged  a  sponge  behind  his 
neck,  closed  his  eyes,  and  remained  motionless, 
smiling. 

He  was  used  to  indignation  more  intense  than  this. 
For  countless  persons  who  knew  him  only  by  hearsay 
or  through  his  writings,  no  epithet  was  too  bad  to 
tag  him  with,  no  story  about  him  too  shocking  for 
belief.  Wherever  he  went — and  there  were  few 
countries  that  he  had  not  penetrated — he  was  sure 
to  be  called  by  some  traveller  "the  man  without  a 
soul." 

This  description  amused  him.  He  did  not  believe 
in  souls. 

He  had  never  felt  those  mysterious  enthusiasms 
which  fix  in  almost  every  heart,  some  time  or  other, 
the  conviction  of  immortality.  He  had  never  re- 
ceived that  unaccountable  influx  of  trust  which 
makes  God  actual  without  need  of  proof.  The  ex- 
periences of  visionaries  and  mystics  he  attributed  to 
nervous  or  mental  disorders.  Just  so  he  laid  every- 
thing in  life  to  some  material  cause. 

Calmly  expecting  obliteration  at  death,  he  re- 
garded with  contempt  the  efforts  of  those  about  him 
to  convince  themselves  and  each  other  of  their  per- 
petuity. 

But  the  world  has  always  had  its  full  share  of 
agnostics.  It  was  not  Sebastian  Maure's  irreligion 


io  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

\ 
\ 

that  excited  such  abuse.  His  supreme  offence  lay  in 
his  formulas  for  conduct. 

If  life  was  a  spark  that  soon  went  out  forever,  one 
owed  it  to  himself  to  squeeze  out  of  living  the  last 
drop  of  personal  satisfaction.  Saintliness  for  saints, 
if  saintliness  pleased  them  best.  But  for  others  an 
equal  liberty  to  pursue  the  most  congenial  pleasures. 

In  Sebastian  Maure's  romances,  the  central  fig- 
ure, however  ingeniously  disguised,  was  always  the 
same,  wealthy,  extraordinarily  brilliant  up  to  certain 
levels,  full-blooded,  ruthless,  appetent,  disdainful  of 
every  convention  that  opposed  his  individuality, 
frankly  hostile  to  such  ideals  as  forbearance  and  re- 
morse, which  Christian  civilization  has  perfected. 
•  Not  that  Sebastian  Maure  was  ignorant  of  the  great 
world-movement  toward  altruism,  human  brother- 

V  ' 

hood,  the  betterment  of  life  for  the  unborn.  His  dis- 
position merely  prevented  him  from  sympathizing 
with  such  enterprises.  For  him  they  were  symp- 
toms of  what  he  called  "the  modern  weakness." 

Had  he  been  less  a  literary  artist,  all  this  propa- 
ganda might  have  passed  unnoticed  into  the  limbo 
of  perverse  philosophies.  But  his  few  books  owned 
an  insidious  eloquence  that  could  not  be  ignored. 
That  he  had  sufficient  talent  to  be  fascinating  was, 
for  innumerable  honest  folk,  his  crowning  outrage. 

To  him  all  this  storming  seemed  ridiculous. 

"And  Andreas,  too,  still  goes  bleating  along  in  that 
herd  of  silly  sheep !  ..." 

Torpid  from  the  hot  bath,  he  began  to  doze.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  just  been  presented  to 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  n 

4 

Andreas  Romanovitch  on  a  fair  green  lawn,  before  a 
marquee  round  which  ladies  were  chatting  under  par- 
asols. But  the  scene  suggested  Autumn  instead  of 
Winter,  and  France  instead  of  Italy,  while  the  voice 
of  Andreas  Romanovitch  was  issuing  from  the  lips  of 
a  tall  girl  in  white,  as  coldly  beautiful  as  Artemis, 
who  looked  at  him  with  aversion  in  the  depths  of  her 
eyes.  Or  rather,  it  was  not  Andreas's  voice  at  all, 
but  hers,  though  the  words  were  surely  his — "Has  itx 
never  been  revealed  to  you  that  pure  virtue  is  in-  I 
corruptible?  ..." 

He  woke  with  a  start.  The  bath-room  was  full  of 
steam.  The  Russian's  forked  beard  was  wagging  in 
the  doorway. 

"  Sebastian,  in  my  anger  I  lied  to  you.  I  still  read 
them,  God  forgive  me!  Come  out  of  your  Inferno. 
Tito  is  here;  and  breakfast  is  on  the  table." 

In  the  study,  a  short  and  stocky  young  man,  re- 
splendent in  the  uniform  of  the  Genoa  Cavalry,  his 
swarthy  face  ornamented  with  a  fierce  little  mus- 
tache, was  exploring  the  bookcases  for  "something 
racy."  It  was  the  Sicilian,  the  Marchese  Tito  di 
Torredidone. 

To  Sebastian,  by  way  of  greeting: 

"Have  you  been  reading  his  Poems  of  Alexis 
Piron?  I  can't  find  them  here." 

"Then  he  has  undoubtedly  burned  them." 

"Would  to  Heaven  I  had,"  said  Andreas  Roman- 
ovitch. "As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  loaned  them  to 
Fiammetta." 

By  the  window,  on  a  table  covered  with  Floren- 
tine lacework,  two  silver  warming-dishes  flanked  a 


12  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

bowl  of  violets.  A  near-by  tabouret  held  a  coffee- 
percolator  and  some  wine-bottles.  Andreas  Roman- 
ovitch,  a  cigarette  in  one  hand  and  a  fork  in  the  other, 
was  beginning  his  meal,  in  Russian  style,  with  snacks 
of  anchovies,  Swiss  cheese,  smoked  sturgeon,  spiced 
eels,  and  pickled  mushrooms.  From  beneath  his 
bath-robe  peeped  out  a  pair  of  bright-green  socks.  As 
he  reached  forward  to  spear  a  slice  of  cheese,  a  gold 
bracelet  slid  down  his  arm  to  clank  against  his  wrist- 
watch. 

"Have  you  no  appetite,  Sebastian,"  he  mumbled. 
"I  mean,  no  normal  one?  Will  you  commence  with 
'zakouska,'  or  plunge  at  once  into  the  devilled  kid- 
neys? Then  there's  a  steak  alia  Pizzaiola,  ill-advised, 
perhaps,  on  account  of  the  garlic.  For  who  knows, 
in  this  world,  what  may  turn  up  between  noon  and 
midnight?" 

"I  must  say,"  commented  Sebastian,  sitting  down, 
"you  manage  to  do  yourself  very  well  in  your  new 
quarters.  By  the  way,  where  are  we?" 

"  Give  yourself  the  trouble  to  look  out  the  window 
and  you'll  see  the  Corso.  It's  expensive;  but  as  you 
know,  in  Rome,  so  far  as  strangers  go,  he  who  econo- 
mizes is  lost.  Besides,  how  the  devil  does  one  set 
about  economizing?  I  take  it  one  can't  do  without 
the  necessities  of  life!" 

Sebastian  Maure,  who  had  never  economized,  or 
done  without  anything  he  wanted,  devoted  himself, 
with  a  shrug,  to  the  devilled  kidneys,  which  he  cov- 
ered with  cayenne  pepper.  But  abruptly  Andreas 
cried  out: 

"  Ha !    Ha !    The  bones  for  those  who  come  late ! ' ' 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  13 

And  he  jumped  up  to  welcome  a  lithe,  handsome 
man  with  a  clear  olive  skin,  a  black  beard  trimmed 
to  a  point,  and  flashing  teeth,  who  stood  in  the  door- 
way smiling.  It  was  the  Italian  novelist  Ernesto 
Sangallo,  not  forty  years  old,  but  famous  already 
throughout  Europe  for  his  three  books  on  Church 
and  State. 

This  afternoon,  he  was  on  his  way  to  Safonoff's 
concert  at  the  Augusteo.  Prince  Campobasso  was 
giving  a  stag  box-party. 

At  the  word  "Augusteo,"  Andreas,  without  fur- 
ther thought  of  breakfast,  began  running  round  fran- 
tically in  search  of  clothes.  Between  shouts  for  his 
servant,  he  exhorted  Sebastian: 

"Do  you  know  what  precious  things  will  be  played 
this  afternoon  while  you  sit  there  munching?  The 
sixth  symphony  of  Tschaikowsky,  the  Patetica!  The 
Kamarinskaiti  of  Glinka!  Four  melodies  by  Liadow! 
La  nuit  de  Noel,  by  Rimsky-Korsakow!  Incorrigible 
sensualist!  Leave  food  alone,  and  dress!" 

"You'd  much  better  stay  home.  Music  excites 
without  satisfying." 

Sebastian  Maure  drank  his  coffee  and  a  liqueur- 
glass  of  vodka,  chose  from  the  humidor  a  large  cigar, 
and  seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair.  Ernesto  San- 
gallo, the  smile  fading  from  his  sensitive  lips,  scru- 
tinized him  thoughtfully.  He  asked : 

"Have  you  left  cards  on  your  friends?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Make  haste.  The  dinners  are  coming  thick  and 
fast.  The  Campobassi  give  a  ball  on  Thursday. 


14  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Then,  of  course,  the  two  regular  weekly  meetings  in 
the  Campagna.  But  the  farmers,  to  discourage  us, 
still  make  the  top-bars  of  their  five-foot  fences  as 
tight  as  ever.  A  French  officer  was  killed  last  week 
in  a  run  near  La  Pisana." 

"There's  no  gambling  so  good  as  a  game  with 
Death,"  declared  Andreas,  jumping  into  his  trousers. 

"Per  Bacco!    You  should  go  to  war." 

"  I  have  been  there.  What's  more,  I  was  wounded. " 

"Where  did  this  happen?" 

"In  a  drawing-room  near  the  Morskaia,  in  Pe- 
tersburg. An  old  general  fired  five  shots  at  me. 
Fortunately,  there  wasn't  much  light,  and  he'd  just 
returned  from  a  highly  copious  banquet.  He  missed 
me,  at  the  expense  of  his  cloisonne  and  majolica. 
But  even  Napoleon  knew  when  to  retreat.  I  dropped 
out  of  a  window." 

"Then  how  were  you  wounded?" 

"Oh,  when  I  landed  I  broke  my  ankle." 

After  a  moment,  Tito  chuckled. 

"Andreas,  as  my  uncle  the  Cardinal  would  say, 
you  have  no  morals  to  speak  of,  but  you  are  devil- 
ish amusing." 

"I  think,"  said  Ernesto  Sangallo,  "he  has  quite 
as  much  morality  as  a  man  needs,  to  be  sure  of 
indulgence." 

"What  do  I  hear?"  cried  the  object  of  this  dis- 
cussion. 
"VI  say  you  are  a  good  man." 

The  Russian  glared  at  Sangallo. 

"I'm  no  such  thing!     I  am  a  very  profligate,  cyn- 


THE  ISL.E  OF  LIFE  15 

ical,  and  degraded  fellow,  and  every  one  knows  it. 
I  take  good  care  that  every  one  knows  it.  It's  all 
I  have  to  make  me  interesting  in  this  gossip-nour- 
ished graveyard  of  a  Rome!  And  now  you  come 
under  my  roof  to  filch  my  reputation!  Bah!  You 
annoy  me  frightfully!" 

Sangallo  laughed  gently. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  please  you,  though  nothing 
could  ever  make  you  admit  it.  And  I'll  please  you 
still  further.  You  are  not  only  a  good  man,  Andreas 
Romanovitch,  but  before  you  die  you  will  find  some 
good  work  to  do." 

Sangallo,  while  speaking,  looked  at  the  young  Rus- 
sian steadily.  And  Andreas  was  suddenly  sobered 
by  that  expression. 

"Mon  Dieu!  Is  it  really  a  fact,  what  they  say: 
that  this  chap  is  one  of  those  who — see  things?" 

Sangallo  hesitated,  glanced  round,  perceived  Se- 
bastian squinting  at  him  through  the  smoke.  He 
responded,  as  if  preoccupied  with  newer  thoughts: 

"  Ah,  we  all  see  more  than  we  realize,  I  think.  .  .  ." 

Sebastian's  valet  appeared.  Twenty  minutes  later, 
the  four  set  out,  in  Tito's  automobile,  for  the  Au- 
gusteo. 

The  motor-car  crawled  along  the  Corso.  Even 
at  this  still  unfashionable  hour,  the  narrow  street 
was  blocked  with  cabs,  while  the  inadequate  side- 
walks were  hidden  beneath  dawdling  pedestrians. 
Here  and  there,  in  a  window  of  a  palace,  a  face 
looked  down  indifferently  upon  the  throng.  At 
church-doors,  old  beggars  held  back  the  hanging 


16  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

screens  of  leather.  Over  all  shone  that  blazing  sun- 
light which  brings  to  Rome  round  mid-day,  even  in 
winter,  something  of  tropic  heat. 

But  suddenly  all  was  chill  and  damp — the  motor- 
car, in  a  mean  street  too  narrow  for  the  sunshine, 
halted  before  a  sort  of  tunnel.  The  four,  alighting, 
passed  through  into  a  court-yard.  Here  people  were 
entering  a  great  circular  structure  half  hidden  by 
the  slattern  walls  that  heeled  against  it.  It  had 
been  the  tomb  of  the  Divine  Augustus.  To-day,  it 
was  the  aristocratic  concert-hall  of  Rome. 

Don  Livio,  head  of  the  famous  Campobasso  family, 
was  already  in  his  box.  Sebastian  Maure  shook 
hands  with  a  tall,  fair  man  of  thirty-eight,  his  im- 
passive face  adorned  with  an  uptwirled  brown  mus- 
tache and  an  eye-glass  that  seemed  part  of  his 
physiognomy.  His  mother  had  been  an  English- 
woman, and  his  wife  was  an  American.  He  him- 
self, like  many  Italian  nobles,  had  a  look  and  man- 
ner distinctly  Anglo-Saxon.  Nothing  surprised  him. 

"You  in  town,  eh?  Good  of  you  to  show  up. 
We  shall  want  you  for  that  affair  of  ours  on  Thurs- 
day night.  .  .  ." 

They  were  looking  out  over  a  spacious  auditorium, 
decorated  in  pale-green  and  gold,  the  red-uphol- 
stered boxes  suspended  above  the  main  floor  in  a 
sweeping  semicircle.  On  the  stage,  a  large  orchestra 
was  tuning  to  an  incessant  din. 

Andreas,  while  ogling  the  boxes,  chattered  in  Se- 
bastian's ear: 

"There  is  de  Chaumont,  the  new  French  attache, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  17 

and  Mme.  Berthe,  his  wife.  They  aren't  too  happy. 
You  know  the  big,  brownish  fellow  with  them,  our 
local  saint,  Don  Giulio,  of  the  Dukes  of  Brazzazza? 
By  rights,  he  belongs  among  the  Blacks;  but  un- 
fortunately, in  that  society,  one  couldn't  meet  Mme. 
Berthe.  Note  the  mysterious-looking  lady  in  the 
interesting  gown.  Mme.  Semadeni,  a  country- 
woman of  mine,  from  the  Caucasus.  But  since  she's 
bowing  to  you  .  .  .  Bigre,  the  Torquato  is  telling 
the  Marchesa  of  Portagialla  all  about  you:  don't 
you  observe  how  pleased  the  old  girl  seems,  as  she 
always  does  when  she  hears  something  shocking? 
...  Ah,  ah,  ah!" 

Sebastian  followed  his  stare.  He  saw,  in  a  box 
full  of  ladies,  Ghirlaine  Bellamy,  the  American. 

Her  blonde  beauty  was  often  said  to  be  too  nearly 
flawless.  Its  startling  purity  made  her  appear,  at 
first  glance,  almost  unapproachable.  It  called  to 
mind  certain  Greek  statues  of  the  virgin  goddess — 
a  human  shape  informed,  as  it  were,  with  a  radiance 
unnaturally  immaculate.  It  was  of  a  quality  to 
arouse  instinctive  reverence,  rather  than  personal 
passion. 

But  in  a  case  where  reverence  was  not  instinctive? 

Sebastian  Maure  had  met  her  once,  and  only  for 
a  moment.  He  had  seen  that  she  immediately  de- 
tested him.  Yet  now  he  had  come  from  the  other 
end  of  Europe  to  Rome,  because  she  was  here. 

And,  as  he  gazed  across  the  auditorium  at  her 
cold  loveliness,  which  was  like  a  serene  defiance  to 
all  the  brutality  hi  his  nature,  it  seemed  to  him  that 


1 8  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

his  desire  for  her,  after  smouldering  a  year,  was  sud- 
denly consuming  him. 

At  his  burning  scrutiny,  slowly  she  met  his  eyes. 
Though  her  face  did  not  change,  he  knew  that  she 
remembered  him.  But  a  ripple  of  hand-clapping  ran 
through  the  house.  She  looked  away. 

On  the  stage,  SafonorT,  appearing  before  his  or- 
chestra, raised  his  hands. 

And  the  Patetica  began,  swelling  out,  through  the 
hush,  like  a  premonition  of  immeasurable  travail. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHEN  Ghirlaine  Bellamy  woke  next  morning,  in 
her  apartment  at  the  Excelsior  Hotel,  her  first 
thought  was,  "  Something  unpleasant  happened  yes- 
terday." Then  she  remembered  the  Augusteo,  and 
Sebastian  Maure. 

She  had  never  felt  so  much  antipathy  to  any  one. 
Before  meeting  him,  she  had  pictured  him  as  sinister 
and  repulsive:  she  had  wondered  how  "good  soci- 
ety" could  tolerate  a  character  so  hostile  to  its  con- 
ventions. Moreover,  certain  stories  brought  home 
by  travellers,  who  claimed  to  have  crossed  his  trail 
in  far  corners  of  the  world,  should  have  excluded 
him,  in  her  opinion,  even  from  the  lax  air  of  foreign 
capitals. 

At  their  meeting,  a  year  before,  this  aversion  had 
developed  into  personal  repugnance.  Just  during 
their  brief  exchange  of  commonplaces,  she  had  per- 
ceived in  him  the  birth  of  a  rapacious  covetousness, 
so  nearly  frank  that  before  she  could  rid  herself  of 
him  it  had  begun  to  envelop  her  almost  like  a  phys- 
ical approach. 

That  such  a  being  as  Sebastian  Maure  should  be\ 
thus  attracted  to  her  was  outrageous.    For  did  not 
the  attraction  of  one  nature  to  another  presuppose 
some  sort  of  mutual  sympathy? 

19 


20  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Still  smarting  under  this  insult  yesterday  renewed, 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  dismiss  him  with  seren- 
ity. 

An  orphan,  and  her  own  mistress,  since  her  eigh- 
teenth year,  she  was  usually  self-reliant  and  cou- 
rageous. But  to-day  a  vague  uneasiness  was  trying 
to  possess  her.  Of  late,  she  had  been  thinking  a 
great  deal  about  one  man  who  wanted  to  marry  her. 
So  now,  all  at  once,  the  remembrance  of  his  clean 
strength  and  sanity  was  reassuring. 

And,  as  she  was  going  to  ride  with  him  this  morn- 
ing in  the  Borghese  Gardens,  she  made  haste  to  call 
her  maid,  make  her  toilette,  and  don  her  habit. 

She  left  her  bedchamber,  passed  through  a  pale- 
blue  salon,  knocked  on  the  opposite  door. 

"Aunt  Charlotte?" 

"Come  in,  my  dear." 

She  found  her  aunt  at  what  is  called,  in  European 
hostelries,  "an  American  breakfast." 

Mrs.  Alexander  Bellamy  was  small  and  elderly, 
with  fresh  cheeks,  white  water-curls,  and  an  air  of  high 
self-respect.  A  widow,  accustomed  to  the  somno- 
lent respectability  of  "old  New  York,"  she  had 
become,  through  a  cruel  trick  of  Fate,  her  niece's 
habitual  chaperon  in  the  great  world  of  Europe. 

Now,  pointing  to  a  well-filled  breakfast  tray  before 
her,  she  announced: 

"My  child,  since  you  ask  me  how  I  am,  I'm  dying 
of  indigestion.  I  know  anger  causes  it.  Neverthe- 
less, I'm  dying  of  it.  Some  anger  is  virtuous.  Mine 
always  is.  Please  examine  these  chops." 


THE  I$LE  OF  LIFE  21 

"They  look  like  cutlets." 

"They  are  cutlets.  But  they  pretend  to  be  chops, 
just  as  everything  in  this  land  pretends  to  be  what  it 
is  not.  Chops  were  my  order.  English  ones,  very 
thick,  broiled  rare,  over  a  hickory  fire.  I  even  re- 
peated it  in  Italian — 'Choppi  Inglesi,  multo  grande, 
rara,  broilata  sopra  una  conflagrazione  di  hickory* 
But  I  forget:  you  don't  know  Italian,  my  dear." 

"It's  such  a  temptation  not  to  learn  it,  when  every 
one  understands  English  or  French." 

"This  waiter,  apparently,  doesn't  even  understand 
his  own  language.  Do  you  see  what  he's  done?  He 
— or  rather  his  accomplice — has  taken  some  very 
good  chops,  and  boned  them,  and  split  them,  and 
fried  them  in  oil,  and  bathed  them  in  orange-colored 
sauce!  And  they  call  this  the  centre  of  Christen- 
dom!" 

"Poor  aunty!    How  you  hate  going  about!" 

"  We've  been  over  all  that.  If  you're  happy,  I  can 
put  up  with  the  rest.  Besides,  my  life  was  always 
too  easy.  I  knew  that  Providence  must  have  some- 
thing different  in  store  for  me.  Sooner  or  later,  every 
one  gets  his  cross  to  bear." 

"Your  neuralgia's  no  better?" 

"It  is  abating.  By  the  time  that  ball  of  Betty 
Fry's  comes  round — or  I  suppose  I  must  call  her 
Princess  Campobasso  these  days — I  shall  probably 
not  have  so  much  as  a  twinge.  I'll  be  forced  to  sit 
up  all  night,  with  my  feet  on  a  marble  floor,  and  talk 
to  that  wicked  old  Marchesa  of  Portagialla.  In  our 
circle  at  home,  she  wouldn't  be  tolerated  an  instant. 


22  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Nor  would  most  of  the  rest,  I  fear!  Whom  are  you 
riding  with  now?" 

"Vincent.     Lieutenant  Pamfort." 

"At  least,  he's  an  Englishman.  Tell  him  I  can't 
find  that  remedy  for  bronchial  cough." 

"But  Lieutenant  Pamfort  hasn't  a  cough!" 

"His  horse  has.  Don't  leave  the  doors  open,  my 
dear.  Your  room  is  always  as  cold  as  a  barn." 

Ghirlaine  Bellamy  went  downstairs  and  out  to  the 
portico,  where  a  groom  was  holding  her  mount,  and 
another  for  himself. 

She  rode  up  the  sunny  Via  Veneto,  through  an 
ancient  city  gate,  and  into  the  Borghese  Gardens. 

Before  her,  the  wooded  landscape,  sombrously 
green,  stretched  afar  in  long  undulations.  Here  and 
there,  in  the  distance,  statues  shone  forth  against  the 
verdure.  To  the  left,  the  ground  fell  away,  to  form 
a  circular  meadow  rimmed  by  a  bridle-path.  On  the 
edge  of  this  course  she  drew  rein,  beneath  some  stone- 
pine  trees  that  spread  their  foliage,  high  in  the 
air,  against  the  bright  sky.  The  bridle-path  was 
empty. 

At  a  walk,  she  began  to  round  the  circle,  listening 
to  the  birds.  But  a  thud  of  hoofs  swelled  out  behind 
her:  the  groom  pulled  aside  to  let  pass  two  galloping 
cavaliers.  They  were  Marchese  Tito  and  Ernesto 
Sangallo.  She  concealed  her  disappointment  with  a 
smile. 

"What  energetic  men!" 

Tito,  his  wits  quickened  by  the  adjacency  of 
beauty,  replied: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  23 

"When  one  is  virtuous  enough  to  get  up  early, 
there's  often  some  reward." 

Sangallo,  for  his  part,  watched  her  with  frank  en- 
joyment. Then,  riding  up  on  the  other  side,  he 
remarked: 

"The  morning's  your  time  indeed,  when  every- 
thing is  immaculate." 

He  was  one  man  who  never  paid  actual  court  to 
her,  yet  always  gave  her  an  impression  of  profound 
sympathy.  But  she  could  not  resist  replying: 

"Do  you  know  you  have  a  reputation  for  seeing 
things  better  than  they  are?" 

"A  man  can  never  hope  to  see  anything  as  good  as 
it  really  is.  As  for  you,  you  only  reveal  more  clearly 
than  usual  what  all  women  have — that  mysterious 
inner  flame,  fed  at  an  altar  to  which  we  others  don't 
know  the  way.  In  the  least  of  you,  you  know,  it's 
never  extinguished,  it  never  even  flickers.  Though 
it's  often  hidden  altogether  from  us  coarser  beings, 
because  of  the  infirmities  of  our  thoughts." 

His  words  amazed  her.  From  an  American  they 
might  not  have  seemed  remarkable.  But  she  had 
never  imagined  an  Italian  with  such  ideas. 

"What  the  deuce  is  he  talking  about?"  cried  Tito, 
edging  closer.  "He's  worse  than  Andreas  Romano- 
vitch.  And  sometimes  you  might  as  well  not  under- 
stand French,  Italian,  or  English  when  that  fellow's 
speaking  it." 

"He  is  showing  me  his  high  opinion  of  women," 
said  Ghirlaine. 

"Oh!" 


24  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"And  what,"  she  asked  Tito,  "are  your  views  on 
that  subject,  Marchese?" 

"I  think  a  beautiful  woman  is  the  noblest  work  of 
God,"  the  soldier  responded,  promptly.  "The  for- 
eigners come  here  hi  swarms  to  look  at  paintings  and 
statuary.  Ridiculous!  The  Corso,  at  six  o'clock  any 
evening,  offers  a  much  more  aesthetic  show.  Be- 
sides, ladies  of  paint  and  marble  are  irritating.  Se- 
bastian Maure  said  something  about  music  yesterday 
that  fits  the  case.  What  was  it?  'Music — '  Never 
mind:  it  was  excellent  anyway." 

"You  have  heard  of  Sebastian  Maure?"  Sangallo 
asked  her. 

"I  detest  him!" 

The  novelist  looked  surprised. 

"It  is  not  good  to  detest  things.  Especially,  when 
they're  pitiable.  As  for  that  man,  his  soul  is  dead. 
And  all  that  his  marvellous  literary  dexterity  might 
be  the  instrument  of,  if  only  that  dead  soul  of  his  were 
resurrected !  Do  you  know  that  the  printed  word  of 
some  natures  has  an  inexplicable,  dynamic  power 
that's  appalling?  No  published  phrase,  of  certain  in- 
dividuals, but  leaves  its  mark  on  mankind,  for  good 
or  evil." 

"I  think  mankind's  rather  too  far  advanced  to  be 
injured  by  such  ideas  as  his." 

"It  isn't  the  strong  alone  who  read,  but  the  weak 
also.  Weakness  is  always  susceptible  to  disease. 
How  few  there  still  are  who  don't  need  all  the  spirit- 
ual tonic  that  genius  can  distil  for  them,  from  the 
eternal  truths!  But  the  corruption  of  that  man's 
dead  soul  is  always  poisoning  the  weak  and  frail." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  25 

T 

"  Capers!"  ejaculated  Tito,  looking  almost  startled. 

Sangallo  pointed  across  the  meadow.  Two  riders, 
a  man  and  a  woman,  had  just  appeared. 

"There's  little  Mme.  de  Chaumont,  the  wife  of  the 
new  French  attache.  At  seventeen  her  family  mar- 
ried her  to  a  stranger.  He  was  a  fashionable  young 
Parisian,  steeped  in  that  peculiarly  immoral  local 
literature  which  is  quite  heartless  while  pretending  to 
be  all  heart.  His  was  one  of  the  malleable  natures. 
Example,  more  than  anything  else,  has  made  him 
what  he  is.  For  ten  years  his  wife  has  endured  his 
viciousness.  Since  the  Church  won't  divorce  them, 
she  goes  on  enduring  it.  But  that's  nothing  new. 
It's  only  something  too  old,  that  we're  going  to 
sweep  out,  some  day,  with  a  lot  of  other  rubbish." 

"Who  is  riding  with  her?" 

"Don  Giulio  Brazzazza." 

"The  man  with  the  paralyzed  sister?  A  sort  of 
recluse,  is  he  not?  " 

"Un  orso — a  bear,"  vouchsafed  Tito,  using  the 
slang  phrase  for  unsocial  men.  "And  a  'Black'  one. 
He  gives  tremendous  sums  to  the  Vatican,  when  he 
might  be  living  like  old  what's-his-name — Lucullus." 

"A  natural  saintly  type,"  Sangallo  observed. 
"The  direct  contrast  to  de  Chaumont.  The  sort  to 
revive  the  idealism  of  a  convent  school-girl.  Guess 
what  has  happened!" 

"If  he  were  half  a  man,"  Tito  growled,  "instead  of 
nine-tenths  a  monk,  he'd  run  away  with  her." 

"And  she?"  Ghirlaine  turned  to  Sangallo.  He 
answered: 


26  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"A  woman  in  love  stands  ready  to  give  or  with- 
hold, to  be  infinitely  weak  or  strong,  obedient — as 
man  seldom  is — to  the  command  of  destiny,  when  it 
comes  to  her  through  the  desire  of  her  one  true 
mate." 

"Corpo  di  Bacco!"  said  Tito,  beaming,  "but  this  is 
conversation!" 

They  were  walking  their  horses  on  the  far  side  of 
the  circle.  Across  the  meadow  rose  the  brown  walls 
of  ancient  Rome,  and  the  crumbling  turrets  of  the 
Pinciana  Gate.  There,  at  last,  beneath  the  stone- 
pines,  a  slim  rider  appeared.  Sangallo  announced: 

"We  must  be  pushing  on.  Tito  wants  to  try  this 
nag  at  the  Parioli  jumps  before  the  next  fox-hunting." 

"The  future  is  full  of  time,"  Tito  grumbled. 

"For  you,  perhaps,  Sicilian,  but  not  for  me.  For- 
ward! Trot!  Gallop!" 

And  they  set  off  round  the  circle,  waving  good-bys, 
and  scattering  dirt-clods  high  in  the  air  behind  them. 

But  Ghirlaine,  holding  her  horse  to  a  walk,  awaited 
the  new-comer. 

He  approached,  comely,  alert,  perhaps  thirty  years 
old,  already  distinguished-looking,  his  small  yellow 
mustache  almost  white  against  his  tan.  His  face 
showed  the  self-repression  of  a  long  line  of  English 
gentlemen.  But  his  eyes  appeared  anxious. 

"I'm  not  late?" 

"No;  I  was  early." 

"Those  fellows  were  away  like  a  shot." 

"Sangallo's  a  dear." 

"Oh,  I  see."    He  flushed  with  pleasure.     Then, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  27 

as  they  proceeded  side  by  side,  he  jerked  out  the 
words: 

"Anything  new?" 

"Almost.  .  .  ." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.     She  went  on: 

"Won't  you  give  me  a  day  or  two  longer?  It's 
such  an  important  thing!" 

"That  first  night,  in  Egypt,  I  knew  it  was  the 
most  important  thing  I  should  ever  have  in  my  life. 
I  don't  blame  you  for  hesitating,  though.  Somehow, 
I  feel  that  I'm  almost  cheating  you.  It's  curious: 
an  English  girl  wouldn't  make  me  feel,  as  you  do, 
that  I've  so  little  to  offer.  .  .  .  Even  now,  when 
things  are  opening  out  before  me,  at  home  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  I  got  a  despatch  in  the  night  that  my 
brother's  very  bad.  I  may  have  to  go  on  any  day." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  distress. 

"It  does  seem  heartless,"  Pamfort  admitted, 
gloomily.  "But  we'd  get  no  credit  for  feeling 
that  way  from  him.  He's  always  disliked  me,  and 
thought  I  hated  him  because  he  had  the  title  and 
the  estate.  For  that  matter,  he's  quarrelled  with 
all  of  us,  even  the  women.  Maude  told  me  last 
evening  she  might  not  go  up  to  the  funeral." 

He  referred  to  his  sister,  Lady  Glastenwold,  who 
was  staying  in  Rome. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Ghirlaine,  "that  strangers 
will  say  I  was  influenced  because  you  were  going  to 
be  Earl  of  Lemster?" 

"No  more  than  that  I  was  influenced  because  you 
had  a  fortune." 


28  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  that?"  she  asked,  in  low 
tones. 

He  met  her  gaze  without  flinching. 

"Inevitably.  I've  always  been  glad  of  it.  It's 
helped  to  make  you — how  shall  I  say  it — the  most 
perfectly  finished  thing  in  the  world." 

"And.  the  strangers  would  be  right,  in  a  way, 
about  the  title  and  the  estate.  For  that  will  make 
something  sure — "  She  felt  herself  blushing.  "That 
will  make  sure  a  dream  of  mine,  that  you  must  be- 
lieve isn't  sordid,  but  that  I  can't  tell  you  now.  .  .  ." 

They  rode  on  in  silence.  She  contemplated  the 
picture  of  the  future  that  those  thoughts  called  up. 

She  saw  a  great  house  in  a  fair,  congenial  country, 
where  the  ideals  of  a  healthy  race,  continually  reviv- 
ified in  that  northern  air,  maintained  the  example 
of  an  illustrious  history.  There,  where  the  future 
seemed  inviolable  like  the  past,  she  might  fulfil 
splendidly  her  proper  destiny  as  a  mother  of  sons. 
What  finer  gifts,  for  those  little  beings  that  lived 
only  in  imagination,  yet  were  already  loved  instinc- 
tively? 

For  it  was  characteristic  of  her  rather  exceptional 
temperament  that,  with  the  unfolding  of  instinct, 
her  reveries  had  preferred  to  reach  out  beyond  the 
thought  of  love  to  the  thought  of  maternity. 

Her  life  with  him  would  be  made  smooth  by  mut- 
ual respect  and  delicate  reticence.  She  fancied  long 
years  in  beautiful  surroundings,  amid  loving  chil- 
dren, with  only  peaceful  happiness  in  retrospection. 
She  was  twenty-five.  Nowhere  else  had  she  found 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  29 

such  promises.  Why  did  she  still  hesitate — as  if  not 
quite  sure  but  that  fate  might  have  in  store  for  her 
experiences  more  vital  than  these? 

She  was  on  the  point  of  making  her  decision.  But 
he  said: 

"There's  something  I  should  have  told  you  sooner, 
perhaps.  I  don't  want  the  slightest  suspicion  of  dis- 
honesty between  us.  ...  There  used  to  be  a  girl  at 
home.  Not  very  well  off.  Good  county  people,  you 
know.  We  grew  up  together.  Folks  rather  took  it 
for  granted  that  we'd  marry  some  day.  .  .  .  But  I 
went  to  Egypt.  And  you  appeared.  ...  So  I 
found  I'd  been  mistaken.  .  .  ." 

The  sunshine  seemed  to  her  less  bright.  Never 
had  she  been  conscious  of  inflicting  pain  without 
perceiving  in  the  world  about  her  a  subtle,  melan- 
choly alteration.  Was  she  injuring  some  one  now, 
whose  sorrow,  reaching  across  sea  and  land,  cast  a 
film  of  sadness  over  her  surroundings?  Beneath  the 
stone-pines  she  drew  rein. 

"Thank  you,  Vincent,  for  telling  me  that." 
"Not  going!    At  least,  I'll  see  you  home." 
"I  find  I  want  to  be  by  myself  to-day." 
"She  hasn't  made  a  difference!" 
"Not  unless  we  could  be  hurting  her." 
"Oh,  nothing  could  very  well  hurt  her!    She's  al- 
ways been  as  strong  and  bluff  as  a  man.    A  big, 
sunburnt  boy,  with  a  pack  of  terriers  falling  over 
her  feet,  and  a  stick  in  her  hand,  to  kill  vermin 
in  the  coverts.  .  .  ." 
"Ah!  .      ." 


30  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Ghirlaine  returned  to  the  hotel.  And  all  day  she 
strove  to  escape  that  thought.  .  .  . 

"But  she  is  a  stranger!  Surely  I  owe  her  noth- 
ing!" 

Yet  a  voice  seemed  to  murmur  in  her  ear: 
"Who  can  say  what  debts  we  owe,  to  the  remotest 
human  beings?" 

"Is  it  possible  that  I'm  heartless?" 

"Still,  if  I  stop  to  consider  another,  do  I  really 
love  him  enough?" 

Before  this  idea  she  recoiled.  For  it  seemed  to 
her  terrible  that  a  woman  should  deliver  herself  over 
to  a  man  not  loved  completely. 

"But  what  is  love!" 

She  had  had  her  share  of  immature  devotions,  of 
girlish  infatuations,  of  longings  of  that  peculiar,  im- 
material sort  that  are  rarely  found  outside  Anglo- 
Saxon  countries,  and  that  have  their  centre,  per- 
haps, in  America.  A  girl  of  Latin  race,  made  aware 
of  Ghirlaine's  past  sentimental  experiences,  would 
not  have  considered  them  experiences  at  all.  But 
girls  of  Latin  race  are  generally  accustomed,  from 
immaturity,  to  an  introspection  that  Ghirlaine,  at 
least,  had  always  instinctively  avoided. 

But  to-day  it  was  not  to  be  avoided.  .  .  . 

"The  Scirocco  is  blowing.  Perhaps  that's  what 
makes  me  so  strange.  ..." 

In  her  motor-car  she  was  borne  at  random  through 
the  streets.  With  vacant  eyes,  she  gazed  on  the  dis- 
mal grandeur  of  old  palace  walls,  on  the  dripping 
nudity  of  fountains,  on  blotched  church-fronts,  on 


3I 

the  ancient  marble  w|ffl^HR^^n^  ^ere  anc^  tnere> 
amid  modern  structun*S7mresoIemn  messages  of  the 
ineffaceable  effect  of  beauty.  In  busier  thorough- 
fares, she  alighted  at  shop-doors.  But  all  the  triv- 
ial and  complicated  luxuries  that  she  purchased 
left  her  listless.  Toward  five  o'clock,  it  occurred  to 
her  that  Lady  Glastenwold  would  be  at  the  Excel- 
sior for  tea.  Might  not  his  sister  set  her  mind  at 
rest?  She  drove  homeward. 

Before  the  hotel,  limousines  and  carriages  were 
drawing  up.  Within,  on  the  enormous  pink  rug  of 
the  "marble  room,"  the  arrivals  were  shaking  hands 
and  chattering.  From  the  winter  garden  strains  of 
music  floated  out  above  glass  screens,  through  which 
were  visible  tall  palms,  green  marble  pillars,  glisten- 
ing tea-tables.  In  this  room  Ghirlaine  found,  at 
one  table,  Princess  Campobasso  with  her  eight-year- 
old  daughter  Donna  Isotta,  the  Marchesa  della  Por- 
tagialla,  Donna  Letizia  Torquato,  and  Lady  Glas- 
tenwold. 

Princess  Campobasso  was  a  handsome  American 
with  majestic  figure,  red  hair,  and  vivid  coloring. 
Though  her  marriage  to  Prince  Livio  had  given  her 
the  entree  into  that  innermost  social  circle  of  the 
capital,  sometimes  called  "The  New  Exclusion 
League,"  she  preferred  the  cosmopolitan  diplomatic 
set,  because  of  its  superior  vivacity.  Through  ea- 
gerness not  to  appear  unsophisticated  in  European 
society,  she  had  acquired  a  somewhat  hard  brill- 
iancy of  manner.  She  had,  indeed,  done  everything 
to  be  chic,  except  to  contract  a  liaison.  For  this  all 


32  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Rome  was  waiting,  content  that  it  would  know  the 
fact  almost  before  she  did  herself. 

Drawing  Ghirlaine  into  a  chair  beside  her,  she 
laughed: 

"You're  just  in  time  to  be  shocked.  The  Mar- 
chesa  is  giving  proofs  why  men  used  to  be  more 
fascinating." 

In  her  youth,  Marchesa  della  Portagialla  had  been 
a  beauty.  To-day,  one  saw  a  small,  obese  old  woman 
who  walked  on  two  canes,  and  whose  fat  face,  cov- 
ered with  purplish  powder,  was  graced  by  a  griz- 
zled mustache.  Enlarging  her  black  eyes  at  Ghir- 
laine, she  nodded  solemnly. 

"Oui,  ma  petite,"  she  asserted,  in  an  asthmatic 
voice  as  deep  as  a  man's.  "When  I  was  young, 
they  were  terrible — but  quite  terrible — and  conse- 
quently far  nicer.  La,  la!  My  children,  one  lived, 
in  the  Rome  of  those  days!" 

"Perhaps,"  ventured  Princess  Campobasso,  mis- 
chievously, "it's  some  tiresome  change  or  other  in 
public  opinion  that's  altered  them,  poor  dears!" 

"Public  opinion!  Bah!  There  has  always  been 
public  opinion.  But  men  who  were  worth  the  name 
never  lost  much  time  in  shutting  the  door  on  it — 
and  hanging  their  hats  on  the  key-hole." 

None  but  Ghirlaine  seemed  to  pay  any  attention 
to  little  Donna  Isotta.  The  latter,  though  engrossed 
apparently  with  a  cafe  parfait,  listened  gravely  to 
everything.  Like  most  children  raised  in  Italian 
households,  she  had  overheard  already,  in  her  short 
life,  some  very  strange  conversations.  And  the  Mar- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  33 

chesa  of  Portagialla  would  certainly  never  have 
thought  of  editing  her  remarks  on  Ghirlaine's  ac- 
count. Besides,  in  her  opinion,  these  American  girls, 
who  habitually  went  off  alone,  Heaven  only  knew 
where,  were  not  to  be  classed  as  jeunes  filles  at  all. 

"Isotta,"  said  Ghirlaine,  "I  didn't  see  you  out  in 
your  basket-cart  this  morning." 

"I  lay  abed.    The  Scirocco  gave  me  a  headache." 

"That's  a  pity.  The  Gardens  were  beautiful — 
at  first.  .  .  ." 

"I  like  the  Pincio  in  the  evening  better,  when 
everybody's  driving.  One  sees  more." 

"More  people,  but  not  so  many  flowers." 

"People  are  more  interesting.  We  don't  grow  up 
to  be  flowers."  She  sipped  her  parfait  serenely.  "I 
like  to  watch  people,"  she  declared,  in  her  clear,  in- 
fantile voice. 

"Poor  baby,"  thought  Ghirlaine,  "has  she  had 
no  childhood  at  all?"  Thank  God,  her  children 
would  not  be  like  this  one!  Nor  like  the  child  of 
another  here!  And  she  looked  at  Donna  Letizia 
Torquato,  a  sweet-faced  woman  of  forty,  whose 
brown  skin  nearly  matched  her  eyes  and  crinkling 
hair.  A  widow  now,  she  had  married  into  the  ven- 
erable and  crumbling  Torquato  family,  to  give  birth 
to  a  degenerate  son.  This  afternoon,  as  the  Queen 
had  been  receiving,  she  wore  on  her  breast,  under 
her  furs,  a  large  monogram  of  diamonds,  her  badge 
as  Lady-of-the-Palace.  Meeting  Ghirlaine's  gaze, 
she  smiled  sympathetically.  But  the  old  Marchesa 
babbled  on: 


34  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Imagine!  It  was  three  in  the  morning!  The 
house  was  roused!  Don  Sigismondo  was  hammering 
on  the  door  with  the  butts  of  his  duelling-pistols! 
Thrilling?" 

"Altro — more  than  thrilling!"  exclaimed  Princess 
Campobasso,  with  a  delicious  shudder. 

"Footling,  I  call  it,"  said  Lady  Glastenwold.  "A 
woman  who  doesn't  play  a  man  square  isn't  worth 
raising  the  roof  for."  Her  flat  cheeks  were  bright, 
and  her  lips  closed  firmly  over  her  rather  projecting 
teeth.  With  her  ash-blonde  hair  simply  dressed,  and 
her  tailor-made  suit,  she  presented  a  picture  of  thor- 
oughly British  disapproval. 

"You  know,"  she  added,  her  voice  full  of  the  un- 
compromising severity  that  still  remains  among  the 
old  county  aristocracy  in  England,  "the  best  people 
everywhere  owe  it  to  their  position  never  to  make 
themselves  ridiculous." 

"Dear  Lady  Maude,"  replied  the  Marchesa, 
sweetly,  "all  love-affairs  can't  be  conducted  in  the 
midst  of  the  North  Sea." 

"No,  I  suppose  you're  right,"  Lady  Glastenwold 
assented,  with  generous  condescension.  "Well,  I'm 
off!  I  promised  to  drop  in  on  young  Brian  Dungan- 
nan.  He's  showing  his  latest  statue." 

"I  haven't  had  a  word  with  you  yet,"  Ghirlaine 
protested. 

"Nor  I  with  you.  Drink  your  tea,  and  I'll  take 
you  along." 

"Ah,  you  tireless  Anglo-Saxons!"  drawled  a  new 
voice. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  35 

A  lissome,  black-haired  woman,  with  almond- 
shaped  eyes,  attired  in  a  rather  spectacular  gown  and 
hat,  had  wandered  over,  cigarette  in  hand,  from  a 
neighboring  table.  She  was  Mme.  Semadeni,  the 
Slav  from  the  Caucasus,  of  whom  no  one  knew  any- 
thing in  particular  except  that  she  had  the  approval 
of  the  Russian  Ambassador,  was  extremely  well  off, 
and  gave  perfect  dinners.  Standing  in  a  limp,  grace- 
ful attitude  by  Ghirlaine's  chair,  she  stared  down  at 
the  girl  with  an  inscrutable  smile. 

"How  I  envy  you!  At  the  close  of  an  enervating 
day  you  still  look  so  supremely  vital!" 

"Do  I?    I  feel  rather  done." 

Mme.  Semadeni  regarded  her  thoughtfully. 

"Perhaps  there  is  something  different  about  you. 
Not  weariness,  though.  Something  else." 

She  sat  down  beside  Ghirlaine  with  a  single,  sinu- 
ous movement. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  in  low  tones,  with  a 
subtle  smile,  "to-day  you  have  the  appearance  of 
being  under  a  shadow?  This  afternoon  I  should  like 
to  read  your  hand." 

"You  believe  in  palmistry?"  asked  Ghirlaine,  smil- 
ing in  turn. 

The  Russian  glanced  at  the  others.  They  were 
asking  Donna  Letizia  about  the  Queen's  reception. 

"For  me,"  Mme.  Semadeni  replied,  "it's  not  so 
much  the  lines  of  the  palm  as  the  impression  I  get, 
when  I  hold  the  passive  hands  of  certain  persons,  at 
certain  times.  For  now  and  then  portents  cluster 
round  us  that  we  ourselves  don't  fathom,  but  that 


36  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

some  one  else,  used  to  receiving  strange  impressions, 
may  see  for  an  instant.  Perhaps  I  talk  foolishness?  " 

"You  interest  me.  So  you  think  that  events  de- 
scend upon  us,  instead  of  waiting  for  us  to  shape 
them?" 

"They  descend  upon  us,  of  course.  The  past  and 
the  future  are  full  of  forces  that  order  our  every 
gesture,  direct  our  every  step.  Out  of  what  has  been, 
and  what  is  yet  to  be,  they  are  always  approaching 
us,  like  great,  slow-moving  winged  angels,  each  with 
his  secret  influence  to  work.  And  the  wind  of  their 
wings  sweeps  us  forward,  backward.  .  .  ." 

"If  that  were  so,  we  should  have  no  power  over 
ourselves,  no  choice  between  good  and  evil." 

"Who  can  say  what  is  good  and  what  is  evil? 
They  are  inseparable.  They  are  the  same  thing. 
And  either  must  be  a  happy  choice,  because  both 
bring  blessings.  .  .  .  Well,  will  you  let  me  take  your 
hand?" 

Ghirlaine  hesitated.  This  curious  woman  had 
roused  all  her  superstition.  Was  it  possible  that  her 
day-long  agitation  could  be  translated  thus? 

Above  the  music  she  heard,  as  if  far  off,  the  Mar- 
chesa  wheezing: 

"Even  when  Florence  was  the  capital,  they  did 
things  much  better " 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  Mme.  Semadeni  took  it. 

For  a  while,  the  Russian  said  nothing.  Then, 
abruptly,  her  eyes  dilated. 

"This  is  strange.  There  seems  to  be  some  sort  of 
bond  between  you  and  me.  ..." 


THE  ISLE^OF  LIFE  37 

She  was  silent  again.  At  last,  she  slowly  pro- 
nounced : 

"You  are  in  danger." 

"Danger!    Of  what?" 

"  I  cannot  feel  that.  .  .  .  Things  are  on  the  verge. 
,  .  .  It  is  like  an  avalanche,  trembling  before  it  falls." 

"Will  it  M?" 

"Yes." 

She  dropped  Ghirlaine's  hand.  The  music  had 
stopped.  People  round  them  were  rising. 

"Now  I  am  sorry!  It's  sometimes  bad  to  strike  a 
light  in  the  dark." 

"I'm  sure,"  replied  Ghirlaine,  trying  to  smile, 
"that  it's  all  your  imagination." 

"  Ah,  no  doubt !    No  doubt ! " 

Ghirlaine  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Ready?"  asked  Lady  Glastenwold,  briskly. 

"Do  you  care  if  I  change  my  mind?  I'm  rather 
too  fagged,  after  all." 

"You  do  look  pale.  Run  upstairs  and  lie  down 
before  dinner." 

"The  foreigners,"  remarked  the  Marchesa,  se- 
verely, "make  a  great  mistake  not  to  take  the  siesta 
in  Rome.  They  get  so  they  can't  digest,  end  up  with 
a  bilious  chill,  and  call  it  Roman  fever.  So  the  city 
obtains  a  bad  name." 

Ghirlaine,  leaving,  heard  Mme.  Semadeni  drawl  in 
reply: 

"How  easy  it  is  for  a  city,  even,  to  get  a  bad 
name.  ..." 

She  ascended  to  her  apartment. 


38  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

It  was  empty.  Darkness  had  fallen.  The  atmos- 
phere in  the  salon  stifled  her.  She  raised  a  window. 
But  the  air  of  the  street  was  no  less  oppressive. 
From  afar  came  a  rumble  of  thunder. 

The  vague  uneasiness  of  the  morning  returned  to 
her.  In  the  face  of  forebodings  that  she  could  not 
understand,  yet  that  seemed  to  her,  just  now,  as  real 
as  the  gathering  storm,  she  felt  like  calling  for  help. 

She  turned  on  the  lights,  sat  down  at  a  writing- 
desk,  and  scribbled  the  words: 

Yes.    Ghirlaine. 

Below  she  added: 

Come  quickly. 

The  envelope  she  addressed  to: 

Lieutenant  the  Honorable  Vincent  Pamfort,  Grand  Hotel. 

Her  maid  entered,  and  took  away  the  note. 

"It's  done.  .  .  ." 

She  returned  to  the  open  window.  Thunder 
was  crashing  over  the  hills.  Rain  was  falling  in 
torrents.  Already  the  air  seemed  clearer,  and  she 
less  frightened. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  Palazzo  Campobasso  stood  in  a  narrow  street 
now  devoted  chiefly  to  the  shops  and  dwellings  of  the 
humble.  Amid  the  squalor  of  that  neighborhood  it 
seemed  like  a  venerable  aristocrat,  who  remains  ma- 
jestic in  whatever  environment  Time  places  him. 

On  Thursday  night,  toward  eleven  o'clock,  the 
palace  was  ablaze  with  lights.  Before  it,  the  way 
resounded  with  a  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  and  motor- 
engines.  And  from  the  dilapidated  windows  round 
about,  the  poor,  craning  their  necks  and  pointing, 
watched  the  arrival  of  great  ladies,  diplomatists,  and 
princes. 

All  equipages  turned  into  the  deep  gateway,  smoky 
from  torches  stuck  in  iron  sockets.  The  old  porter, 
his  obsolete-looking  cape-coat  festooned  with  gold 
lace,  was  continually  raising  his  big  hat  like  that 
of  a  field-marshal  of  Napoleon,  and  bowing  till  his 
little  sword  stuck  up  behind  him. 

At  the  rear  of  the  pillared  court-yard,  the  guests 
alighted  before  a  fine  stone  staircase.  They  as- 
cended between  rows  of  servants  clad  in  the  gala 
livery  of  the  Campobassi — green  coats  of  shaggy 
plush,  peach-colored  knee-breeches,  and  white  silk 
stockings.  At  the  first  landing  the  major-domo  of 
the  palace  was  pointing  to  the  cloak-rooms  on  either 
side. 

39 


40  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Then  emerged  the  dress-uniforms  gay  with  epau- 
lets and  belts  of  gold  and  silver,  the  ball-gowns  of 
ladies  whose  throats  and  arms  displayed  the  jewels 
of  great  houses.  And  every  one  continued  the  ascent 
toward  the  "noble"  floor. 

A  vista  of  immense  rooms  appeared.  Clusters  of 
wax  candles  shone  in  mid-air  among  the  pendants  of 
elaborate  chandeliers,  or  were  reflected  on  all  sides 
in  old  mirrors  that  extended  to  the  cornices.  The 
walls,  lined  with  gilt  chairs  and  sofas,  disappeared 
behind  tapestries  and  paintings  famous  throughout 
Europe.  The  ceilings  either  displayed  great  fres- 
coes, in  which  gods  and  goddesses  sprawled  at  ran- 
dom amid  clouds,  or  else  interlacing  rafters,  rich  with 
the  heraldic  carving  of  an  earlier  age.  In  corners, 
statues  of  pagan  deities  looked  down,  their  smooth 
shapes  mellow  from  antiquity.  A  golden  mist,  in- 
tense round  the  chandeliers  and  sconces,  gave  to  the 
long  perspective  a  vague  splendor. 

Prince  and  Princess  Campobasso  were  receiving  in 
the  first  apartment.  The  guests,  after  being  greeted 
by  them,  continued  through  the  rooms.  These  were 
so  arranged  that  one  could  come  round  to  the  start- 
ing-point without  turning  back,  thus  making  the  giro, 
or  tour,  so  desirable  in  the  opinion  of  Italian  host- 
esses. Nine  halls,  each  large  enough  for  an  ordi- 
nary reception,  had  been  thrown  into  one.  In 
the  most  extensive,  a  string-band,  from  SafonofFs 
orchestra,  was  ready  to  furnish  music  for  the 
dancers. 

An  immense  number  of  people  had  been  invited. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  41 

It  was  one  of  those  monster  balls,  of  which  nowadays 
two  or  three  occur  every  year  in  Rome,  that  appar- 
ently break  down,  at  least  for  the  evening,  the  bar- 
riers between  the  several  societies  of  the  capital. 
The  diplomatic  world  was  there  in  force.  The  New 
Exclusion  League  came  in  contact  with  the  cosmo- 
politan element.  Even  some  members  of  that  other 
close  corporation,  the  Royal  Court,  rubbed  elbows 
with  the  supporters  of  the  Vatican.  A  dozen  years 
before,  such  a  conglomeration  would  have  been  im- 
possible. 

Among  the  last  arrivals  whom  the  Campobassi 
welcomed,  before  withdrawing  to  the  ballroom,  was 
Sebastian  Maure. 

"I  began  to  think  you  weren't  coming,"  said  Prin- 
cess Betty,  as  if  she  had  been  watching  for  him  all 
evening.  She  wore  a  dress  of  hyacinth-blue  velvet 
embroidered  in  silver,  and  a  wonderful  parure  of 
the  Campobasso  diamonds.  She  was  slightly  pale, 
like  one  at  the  apogee  of  life.  It  was,  indeed,  one 
of  the  supreme  moments  for  the  woman  who  had 
been  little  Betty  Fry  of  Madison  Avenue. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Sebastian,  "could  have  kept 
me  from  this  moment,  dear  lady." 

And  with  that  charm  of  manner  which  had  not 
deserted  him,  he  turned  to  congratulate  Don  Livio 
on  the  success  of  his  first  season  as  Master  of  the 
Roman  Hunt. 

"I  understand  you've  made  the  finest  pack  out- 
side of  England,  and  the  least  destructive  field  in 
years." 


42  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"You  must  come  out  next  week  and  judge  for 
yourself." 

"Perhaps  I  may,  if  I  find  a  hunter  to  lift  me  over 
these  Roman  fences." 

He  passed  into  the  second  room. 

This  apartment  was  full  of  men,  who  left  a  nar- 
row path  for  the  new-comers.  Amid  the  civilians' 
coats,  many  uniforms  were  scattered.  Near  the 
door,  a  group  of  middle-aged  Italians,  all  in  black, 
were  talking  apart,  with  vehement  gesticulations: 

"It  was  time  to  suspend  somebody!  For  a  week 
the  Socialists  have  prevented  all  legislation  with 
their  howls.  .  .  .  Apparently,  they'd  only  just  dis- 
covered that  the  Camorra  was  used  in  Naples  to 
secure  his  return.  .  .  .  And  pray  what  are  they 
themselves  interested  in,  nowadays,  but  individual 
intrigues?  .  .  .  All  the  same,  my  dear  friend,  the 
Camorra!  That  tremendous  parasite,  which  has  its 
roots  in  the  scum  of  our  southern  population,  while 
its  tentacles  climb  up  to  twine  about  the  very  foot- 
stool of  authority  ..." 

Sebastian  Maure  escaped  the  rest  of  this  typically 
Italian  peroration.  He  approached  a  crowd  of  young 
men  at  the  far  end  of  the  room — the  present-day  de- 
scendants of  the  "hereditary  ruling  class." 

"Altogether  too  thin.  .  .  .  Time  will  remedy 
that.  .  .  .  No  time  like  the  present.  .  .  .  You 
should  return  to  La  Sorrentina:  she  wreighs  at 
least  a  hundred  kilos  in  her  stage  costume,  which 
is  equivalent  to  nothing.  .  .  .  This  little  one  is 
rather  simpatica,  though.  What  sort  of  dowry  will 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  43 

she  have?  Did  you  see  her  brother's  waistcoat? 
They're  making  them  so  in  Paris  now.  .  .  .  And  I 
hear  we're  all  to  have  velvet  cuffs  on  our  dress- 
coats.  .  .  .  Perdinci!  My  tailor  has  told  me  noth- 
ing about  that!  .  .  ." 

In  the  third  room  Sebastian  Maure  found  An- 
dreas Romanovitch,  Marchese  Tito,  and  Ernesto 
Sangallo. 

"Thank  Heaven,"  cried  Andreas  Romanovitch, 
his  little  red  eyes  sparkling,  "here  is  some  one  who 
can  settle  the  question  for  us!" 

"What  question?" 

"Whether  we're  to  have  better  luck  in  a  future 
life  with  the  ladies  who  refuse  us  a  kiss  in  this  one.'* 

"Best  to  enjoy  to-day  what  may  have  no  exist- 
ence to-morrow." 

"But  when  you're  refused  point-blank?" 

"When  you're  refused  something,  why  not  take 
it  anyway?" 

"A  predatory  animal,  this  Sebastian!  Do  stand 
to  one  side,  anyhow!  With  that  elephantine  shape 
of  yours  in  the  way,  a  hundred  people  may  have 
slipped  past  without  my  seeing  them." 

"No  one  has  gone  in  lately,"  volunteered  Tito, 
"but  Mme.  de  Chaumont." 

"Then  Don  Giulio  is  probably  out  of  his  cave  to- 
night." 

"This  sentimental  Slav  is  always  putting  two  and 
two  together!" 

"One  and  one,  you  mean." 

" Take  care,"  Sangallo  warned  him.  "Here  comes 
her  husband." 


44  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Hector  de  Chaumont  joined  them,  a  tall  young 
man  of  womanish  figure,  his  chin  concealed  by  a 
fluffy,  mouse-colored  beard  spread  out  like  a  fan. 
His  hand-clasp  was  lifeless. 

"Tito,  the  girl  we  saw  looking  out  of  the  studio 
window  on  Mons  Tarpeo  is  Brian  Dungannan's 
model.  A  peasant  from  Ariccia.  Name,  Camilla. 
When  she  goes  out  walking,  blind,  deaf,  and  dumb. 
And  how,  my  dear  Andreas,  is  the  adorable  Fiam- 
metta?" 

"My  dear  Hector,  her  name  isn't  Fiammetta  any 
more.  It  is  Poppaea  Sabina.  And  she  does  noth- 
ing, lately,  but  ask  me  questions  about  this  scoun- 
drelly Sebastian." 

"Ha,  ha!    The  eternal  triangle,  dear  colleague!" 

"No  doubt,  dear  colleague.  Though  in  her  case 
you  might  better  say,  the  eternal  polygon.  To 
change  a  painful  subject,  where  shall  I  find  Mme. 
de  Chaumont?" 

"In  the  ballroom,  I  think,  with  little  Donna 
Dora." 

"Ah,  that  poor  child,"  exclaimed  Andreas,  winc- 
ing. "Always  in  the  ballroom,  though  she  can 
never  hope  to  dance!  Always  watching  while  others 
whirl  past,  on  their  strong  limbs,  in  the  arms  of 
young  men!" 

"Every  ill  conceals  its  purpose,"  said  Sangallo, 
quietly. 

He  turned  to  greet  considerately  a  puerile-looking 
youth  of  twenty,  with  pallid  skin,  an  unsymmetrical 
face,  and  a  mustache  of  half  a  dozen  hairs  twirled 
up  at  the  corners  of  his  lips.  It  was  Don  Leone, 


THE  ISLE.  OF  LIFE  45 

Donna  Letizia's  son,  and  the  last  of  the  ancient  line 
of  the  Torquati. 

To  Sebastian,  the  new-comer  announced,  in  a  thin, 
frilling  voice: 

"Grandpapa  has  heard  you're  in  Rome.  He  told 
me  to  ask  you  to  call." 

He  referred  to  old  Prince  Torquato,  an  eccentric 
who  lived  continually  shut  up  in  his  palace — a 
dweller  in  the  past,  a  foe  of  progress,  a  woman- 
hater. 

"Very  kind  of  him.     I  shall  certainly  do  so." 

"Are  you  dancing  to-night,  Leone?" 

"Dancing  is  so  fatiguing.  No:  I've  been  watch- 
ing Miss  Bellamy." 

"Norn  d'un  nom  (Tun  nom  d'un  nom!"  Andreas 
ejaculated.  "Then  she  did  slip  past,  after  all!" 

He  and  Tito  made  off  incontinently.  Sebastian 
Maure  sauntered  into  the  fourth  room. 

Here  were  more  uniforms,  clustered  round  ball- 
dresses.  But  in  a  corner  a  group  in  sober  garb 
wrere  talking  apart.  They  were  "Blacks,"  or  mem- 
bers of  the  Vatican  party.  Sebastian,  as  he  passed 
them,  heard  a  big,  bony  man,  with  the  honest, 
swarthy  ugliness  of  a  Savonarola,  pronounce: 

"The  number  of  unbeneficed  clergy  has  risen  al- 
most to  seventy  thousand,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
mass-priests.  If  they're  to  live,  the  Ecclesiastical 
Fund  must  allow  larger  doles.  In  short,  the  mini- 
mum must  be  raised.  ..." 

This  was  Don  Giulio,  of  the  Dukes  of  Brazzazza. 
While  he  was  speaking,  his  large,  melancholy  eyes 


46  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

looked  over  the  heads  of  his  auditors,  toward  the 
doorway  of  the  fifth  room,  through  which  drifted 
the  music  of  a  waltz. 

Sebastian,  smiling  to  himself,  entered  the  fifth 
apartment. 

It  adjoined  the  ballroom,  and  was  full  of  ladies. 
Donna  Letizia  was  there,  her  hair,  skin,  and  eyes 
nearly  matched  by  her  costume  of  pale-brown  satin. 
He  saw  Lady  Glastenwold,  remarkable  amid  all 
those  lily-like  women  for  her  fresh  country  color. 
But  a  low  voice  reached  his  ear: 

"  Tiens,  mon  ami.  ..." 

He  turned  to  meet  the  inscrutable  eyes  of  the 
Russian,  Mme.  Semadeni. 

Her  lithesome  figure  was  wrapped  in  emerald- 
green;  cascades  of  emeralds  were  spread  on  her 
bosom.  An  exotic  perfume  enveloped  her;  and  Se- 
bastian, as  it  reached  him,  remembered  vividly  other 
lands  and  years.  He  kissed  her  hand. 

"I  was  looking  for  you,  gracious  lady  ever  beau- 
tiful." 

"My  dear  friend,  since  you  came  to  Rome  you 
have  not  looked  for  me  once." 

"As  Petronius  says,  there's  a  peculiar  charm  in 
postponing  the  finest  pleasures." 

"If  you  think  that,  then  your  inner,  as  well  as 
your  outer,  self  is  greatly  changed.  No:  it  is  just 
because  we've  played  our  parts  together  in  this 
act,  and  are  destined,  now,  to  some  other  scenes 
apart.  But  often  it  isn't  quite  easy  to  obey  the 
Prompter.  ..." 


THE  ISLE^OF  LIFE  47 

"Even  when  the  appearance  of  one's  old  co-actor 
is  so  changed?" 

"  Is  it  the  envelope  of  the  flesh  that  attracts?  You 
know  it's  something  deeper.  Do  you  remember  my 
ever  telling  you  that  you  were  the  sort  of  man  who 
could  always  have  what  he  wanted  of  us  others?  .  .  . 
But  of  course  you're  changed!  People  don't  go  on 
destroying  themselves  without  its  becoming  no- 
ticeable." 

"My  dear  Lydia,  I  lead  the  life  that's  most  con- 
genial to  me." 

"And  when  you've  killed  yourself?" 

"Why,  I  shall  have  lived." 

Looking  at  him  intently,  she  replied: 

"You  are  not  happy,  Sebastian." 

"That's  easily  remedied?" 

Still  staring  at  him,  she  shook  her  head. 

"Good-night,  my  poor  friend." 

She  turned  away. 

He  approached  two  diplomatists.  One  was  say- 
ing: 

"I  needn't  ask  you  what  the  effect  would  be,  if 
Austro-Hungarian  Bonds  were  listed  on  the  Bourse. 
The  Vienna  market  eased  for  the  benefit  of  Imperial 
German  loans.  In  the  end,  French  financial  re- 
sources available  for  German  armament.  Belle  af- 
faire! In  effect,  if  the  French  Senate  hadn't  waked 
up- 

The  other  diplomatist,  an  old  gentleman  with  a 
rosy,  innocent  face  and  dreamy  eyes,  took  Sebastian 
by  the  arm.  As  if  vaguely  perplexed,  he  inquired: 


48  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Would  you  say  her  head  was  too  small  for  her 
height?  I've  seen  a  superb  carved  gem,  from  Pom- 
peii, with  her  proportions.  But  they're  rare.  They 
approach  the  unrealizable  ideal " 

"What  are  you  talking  about!"  the  first  diplo- 
matist asked,  in  amazement. 

"  That  girl  yonder.  Miss  what's  her  name?  Miss 
Bellamy." 

He  saw  her.  She  was  in  white,  a  strand  of  pearls 
round  her  neck,  a  wreath  of  white  roses  in  her 
hair.  The  exceeding  slenderness  of  her  shape  seemed 
somehow  belied  by  a  certain  delicate  fulness  of 
her  throat.  Indeed,  that  lovely  throat,  milk-white, 
ringed  round  by  the  twofold  crease  called  "Venus's 
collar,"  appeared  to  be  hinting  to  him:  "It  would 
surprise  you  to  know  how  much  of  all  this  physical 
reticence  is  due  to  fashion.  .  .  ."  Her  eyes  met 
his. 

She  had  expected  to  see  him  here.  Still,  she  found 
herself  ill  prepared  for  this  new  encounter  of  glances. 
This  was  due,  perhaps,  to  the  fact  that  Vincent  had 
not  yet  arrived. 

Ghirlaine  turned  to  Lady  Glastenwold,  who,  as 
Mrs.  Bellamy  was  again  out  of  sorts,  accompanied 
her. 

"Do  you  fancy  he's  had  worse  news  from  England? 
He  said  eleven.  And  now  it's  midnight." 

Lady  Maude  squeezed  her  hand. 

"An  eternity,  when  one's  in  love — eh,  dear  old 
thing?" 

"Hush!" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  49 

The  engagement  was  not  to  be  announced  for 
a  while. 

An  Ambassador,  fresh  from  a  dinner  at  the  Qui- 
rinal,  wearing  the  Cordon  of  Saints  Michael  and  Laz- 
arus, addressed  Miss  Bellamy: 

"Not  bostonning  to-night,  Gnadige  Fraulein ?  Not 
even  the  quadrille  fleuri?  Just  as  well,  perhaps.  To 
throw  but  one  rose  would  be  to  sow  a  crimson  field 
of  duels.  What  do  I  get  if  I  propose  you  for  the 
Nobel  Peace  Prize?  Ah — when  you  smile  like  that, 
you  pay  in  advance!  ..." 

He  moved  on,  scattering  compliments,  like  an  old,, 
bald-headed,  highly  ornamental  bird  pecking  his  way 
through  a  flower-garden. 

Many  young  girls  were  thereabouts,  very  prim 
though  richly  dressed,  with  downcast  eyes,  and  lips 
half  afraid  to  smile  at  the  banal  speeches  of  youths 
surrounding  them.  The  married  ladies,  however, 
seemed  like  a  different  race.  Exuberant,  full  of  in- 
tense vitality  and  temperament,  they  gave  the  effect 
of  personalities  almost  too  vivid  for  modern  clothes* 
Their  exquisite  Paris  dresses  were  subtly  incongru- 
ous. One  regretted  that  the  peplum  and  the  sandals 
could  not  be  revived  for  them. 

But  they  chattered  in  English — a  language  more 
used,  in  some  Roman  homes,  than  Italian: 

"Oh,  my  dear,  merely  summer-resort  acquaint- 
ances! In  town,  we  don't  even  bow.  .  .  .  And  what 
sort  of  place  is  that  for  August?  ...  A  place  where 
a  woman  can  buy  a  hat,  that's  all.  .  .  .  Still,  they 
say  that  two  years  ago  she  .  .  .  By  the  way,  he's 
here  to-night.  Have  you  read  his  latest  book? 


SO  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Frightful,  certainly,  but  fascinating.  .  .  .  And  that's 
the  worst  of  it.  The  old  Sheikh  of  the  Assassins 
only  took  people's  lives.  This  man  means  to  murder 
hope  and  conscience.  .  .  .  And  not  merely  a  theo- 
rist! Do  you  know  what  happened  when  he  was  in 
the  Caucasus?" 

"Will  you  take  me  into  the  ballroom?"  asked 
Ghirlaine  of  Andreas  Romanovitch,  who  had  just 
popped  up  before  her. 

"Would  I  escort  the  peri  Banou  into  Paradise?" 

He  offered  his  arm,  and  they  passed  through  a 
doorway  framed  with  gilded  cupids. 

The  ballroom,  its  walls  lined  with  mirrors  over- 
laid by  golden  arabesques,  its  high  bays  adorned  with 
frescoes,  was  sweet  from  countless  roses.  The  music 
had  stopped:  on  the  great  marble  floor  a  swarm  of 
couples  returned  to  the  chairs.  In  one  corner  Ghir- 
laine saw  the  old  Marchesa  of  Portagialla,  Mme.  de 
Chaumont,  and,  beside  the  latter,  a  young  girl  mo- 
tionless on  a  sofa  heaped  up  with  cushions.  It  was 
Don  Giulio's  sister,  Donna  Dora. 

The  invalid,  small,  rather  plump,  with  a  dainty 
aquiline  nose  and  indecisive  lips,  had  the  clear  pallor 
of  a  camelia.  Since  in  all  her  seventeen  years  she 
had  never  walked,  her  life  had  been  largely  spent 
with  nurses,  old  folks,  and  nuns.  It  was  said  that  she 
had  "a  vocation"  for  the  religious  life:  but  her  dis- 
ability prevented  her  from  taking  the  veil.  To-day, 
her  heart  remained  cloistered  in  childish  piety,  gentle, 
resigned.  Yet  from  time  to  time  there  stole  into  her 
big  black  eyes  a  vague  wistfulness. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  51 

T 

But  a  radiant  smile  appeared  on  her  face,  when  she 
saw  Andreas  Romanovitch. 

"I've  brought  a  beautiful  lady  to  talk  to  you,"  he 
told  her,  gayly. 

"But  you,"  she  asked  him,  in  a  clear  young  voice, 
while  holding  Ghirlaine's  hand,  "are  going  to  stay 
too,  and  tell  me  funny  things?" 

"We're  all  going  to  stay  till  you're  tired  of  us. 
Here  is  even  Tito,  ready  to  give  his  imitation  of  the 
Colonel  and  the  stupid  sentry.  We'll  keep  him  till 
last,  though,  or  you'll  be  tired  at  once.  But  it 
seemed  to  me,  as  we  crossed  the  floor,  that  we  were 
going  to  interrupt  something  interesting.  I'll  wager 
the  Marechal  B runner  rose-bush  is  in  bloom  at  last! " 

"Oh,  no.  Mme.  de  Chaumont  was  only  letting 
me  talk  about  Giulio." 

"You  adore  that  brother  of  yours!" 

"He  is  so  good!" 

"That,"  the  Marchesa  rumbled,  benevolently,  "is 
the  very  best  of  reasons,  my  dear." 

A  frail,  elderly  man,  with  a  long  white  beard  and 
profound  eyes,  smiled  at  these  words  as  he  passed. 

"Who  was  that?"  Andreas  inquired. 

"Eh,"  chuckled  the  Marchesa,  "an  amusing  old 
character!  A  hermit,  a  butterfly  farmer,  a  flower- 
doctor,  a  mad  star-gazer — I  don't  know  what !  His 
name  is  John  Elzevir.  He's  American-born.  He 
lives  out  Tivoli  way.  In  my  youth,  I  was  actually  in 
love  with  the  man  for  a  week,  because  he  looked  like  a 
saint.  And  saints  were  a  novelty,  in  the  Rome  of 
those  days." 


52  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"There  are  lots  of  them  now." 

"I  see  one  who  is  not,"  the  Marchesa  retorted, 
squinting  across  the  hall. 

Again,  Ghirlaine's  eyes  met  the  gaze  of  Sebastian 
Maure,  intelligent,  penetrating,  frightfully  compre- 
hensive— the  gaze  of  a  man  who  sees  and  appreciates 
everything  in  a  flash.  .  .  . 

She  spread  her  fan,  and  let  it  flutter  before  her 
bosom. 

"How  is  it  that  a  foreigner  of  his  sort  is  received 
here?" 

"Because  he's  exceedingly  rich,  and  belongs  to  a 
family  that  goes  back,  in  its  French  branch,  to  the 
last  Crusade.  It  was  a  cadet  of  that  house  who  emi- 
grated to  America  in  the  seventeenth  century,  and 
founded  the  fortune.  But  surely  the  Maures  are  well 
known  in  New  York?" 

"Not  at  all.  Because  this  one  is  the  last  of  them, 
and  has  spent  nearly  all  his  life  in  Europe." 

"True,"  remarked  the  Marchesa.  "He's  not  a  bit 
like  an  American." 

"Thank  you  for  that,"  said  Ghirlaine. 

"After  all,"  protested  Andreas  Romanovitch, 
"who  knows?  In  my  opinion,  all  that  we  see  is  a 
pose." 

"Such  a  pose  would  have  to  be  founded  on  innate 
perversity!" 

"Possible.  Though  even  perversity  is  sometimes 
a  pose.  .  .  ." 

But  Ghirlaine  heard,  close  beside  her,  Lady  Glas- 
tenwold's  lowered  voice: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  53 

"Buck  up,  old  girl,  I've  got  bad  news  for  you. 
Lemster's  worse;  and  Vincent  is  starting  north  to- 
night. He's  in  the  gallery  at  the  end  of  the  rooms. 
Come  and  bid  him  good-by.  ..." 

Behind  the  last  room,  a  glass  gallery  overlooked  the 
gardens  which  lay  behind  the  palace.  There  green 
lamps  burned  dimly  amid  potted  plants.  The  out- 
lines of  statues  loomed  through  shadowy  foliage. 
The  air  was  thick  with  the  scent  of  azaleas  and  lemon- 
blossoms. 

In  the  ballroom,  dancing  had  recommenced.  The 
gallery  seemed  deserted.  But  as  Lady  Maude  dis- 
appeared, Vincent  Pamfort  came  forward. 

He  was  dressed  for  the  journey.  His  baggage  had 
gone  to  the  station.  He  had  barely  time  to  catch 
the  Paris  Express. 

Their  hands  met  and  twined  together.     At  last: 

"So  you're  leaving  me.  ...  I  suppose  Maude 
will  follow  you,  now,  after  all.  ...  And  I  shall  be 
here  alone.  ..." 

They  were  silent,  looking  down,  through  the  glass, 
at  the  fountain-basin  and  gravel  paths  of  the  garden, 
blanched  by  the  starlight.  He  mused: 

"It's  the  future  that's  beginning!  To-day  I 
turned  in  my  papers.  I'm  a  soldier  no  longer. 
Good  old  Egypt  is  done  for." 

"And  now  you'll  not  even  get  back  to  Rome!" 

"I  shall  soon  have  to  take  over  everything  at 
home.  It's  you  who  must  come  to  me.  Come 
quickly,  eh?" 

"To-night  it  seems  as  if  I  were  saying  good-by 
to  you  for  a  long,  long  while." 


54  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"A  week,  a  day,  would  be  that!" 

"I  mean  for  longer  than  days  and  weeks  and 
months." 

He  kissed  her  cold  fingers. 

"You're  so  deliciously  different,  Ghirlaine!  So 
much  less  self -reliant !  Almost  appealing!  And  con- 
sequently, sweeter  even  than  when  I  fell  in  love 
with  you." 

"Love  weakens  one,  I  think,"  she  answered,  low- 
ering her  head. 

He  put  his  hand  under  her  chin,  and  looked  in 
her  eyes.  What  he  seemed  to  read  in  them  set  him 
to  trembling.  His  breath  was  short: 

"How  wonderful —  That  the  goddess  has  turned 
to  flesh  and  blood  for  me —  You  do  love  me,  Ghir- 
laine!" 

"If  love  means  wanting  you  very  near  me,  and 
being  afraid  to  have  you  go,  for  fear  it'll  never  be 
like  this  again " 

"That's  impossible.  Nothing  can  part  us  now!" 
He  kissed  her  lips.  For  an  instant  she  hung  back, 
then,  suddenly,  clung  tight  to  him.  A  wave  of  pas- 
sion flowed  through  her,  and,  as  it  were,  rushed  out 
to  him  in  that  kiss.  She  was  amazed  at  herself. 
And  she  amazed  him?  .  .  .  She  leaned  against  the 
window,  her  eyes  half-closed,  her  temples  throbbing. 
She  heard  him  utter: 

"Well,  dear,  it's  good-by." 

"Not  that!" 

"  Till  soon,  then.     A  bientot,  you  know." 

"A  bientot." 


THE  ISLE.  OF  LIFE  55 

He  released  her,  paused  to  look  again,  de- 
parted. .  .  . 

Another  moment,  and  she  wanted  to  call  him 
back,  to  beg  him  to  stay,  or  else  to  go  with  him. 

"What  folly!"  she  thought.  "It's  only  come  to 
pass  as  we  expected!  But  the  expectation  of  this 
is  just  what  has  been  frightening  me?" 

And  she  felt,  as  never  before,  an  awe  of  that  future 
which  is  always  veiled  in  darkness,  which  even  the 
brightest  optimism  only  appears  to  illuminate,  but 
which  sometimes  a  flash  of  premonition  seems  to 
reveal,  for  an  instant,  in  a  form  altogether  different 
from  that  contrived  by  one's  hopes  and  plans. 

What  did  the  future  seem  to  hold  for  her  to-night? 
The  peace  she  had  dreamed  of,  in  that  fresh  north- 
ern land  toward  which  her  lover  was  speeding? 
The  serenity  of  such  affection  as  he  and  she  had 
promised  each  other?  The  protection  of  kindness  and 
honor?  The  security  of  familiar,  congenial  places? 

She  heard  again  the  low  voice  of  Mme.  Semadeni: 

"You  are  in  danger.  ..." 

"This  is  madness!" 

She  turned  to  leave  that  dim,  oversweet  gallery, 
to  regain  the  bright  rooms  full  of  people  whose  minds 
were  occupied  with  sane  thoughts. 

But  in  front  of  her  the  shadowy  foliage  parted. 
A  tall,  bulky  figure  loomed  in  the  way.  The  green 
light  of  the  lamps  rested  on  the  one  face  she  did 
not  want  to  see. 

She  stopped  short.  He  remained  motionless,  look- 
ing at  her. 


56  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

With  an  effort,  she  recalled  her  composure.  She 
would  not  give  this  moment  significance,  either  by 
trying  to  escape  it,  or  by  meeting  it  with  any  ap- 
pearance of  irritation. 

He  said,  in  tones  so  natural  that  they  caused  her 
a  shock  of  surprise: 

"You're  not  dancing  to-night,  Miss  Bellamy?" 

And  she  tried  to  respond  with  her  usual  amiabil- 
ity. 

"No.    In  fact,  I'm  just  leaving." 

He  did  not  move  aside.  His  mask-like  counte- 
nance did  not  change.  But  he  returned,  very  cour- 
teously: 

"I'm  sorry  for  that.  I  hoped  to  have  another 
chat  with  you.  A  longer  one  than  our  first,  a  year 
and  more  ago.  But  perhaps  in  all  this  time  you've 
forgotten  me?" 

She  had  no  choice  but  to  carry  on  his  farce. 

"Oh,  no:  I  remember  you  perfectly,  Mr.  Maure. 
Would  you  mind  looking  out  of  the  door  to  see  if 
Lady  Glastenwold's  in  sight?" 

"Why  not  forget  Lady  Glastenwold  for  the  mo- 
ment? She,  or  some  one  else,  will  show  up  as  soon 
as  my  luck  begins  to  turn." 

Again  she  attempted  to  treat  him  like  any  other 
man.  With  a  laugh,  she  asked: 

"You  believe  things  depend  on  chance?" 

"I  believe  things  depend  on  the  way  one  takes 
his  chances." 

"After  all,  that's  rather  abstruse  for  small  talk, 
don't  you  think?" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  57 

"Who  can  be  sure  what  is  small  talk  and  what  is 
not?  Words  often  tell  us  something  quite  foreign 
to  the  subject  in  hand.  In  fact,  as  a  general  thing, 
it's  only  when  speech  ceases  that  the  truth  is  re- 
vealed." 

The  waltz  music  came  to  them  very  faintly.  It 
was  as  if  they  two  were  drifting  far  from  everything 
else  in  the  world.  And  gradually  the  feeling  per- 
vaded her  that  no  stranger  was  standing  before  her, 
but  some  one  whom  she  was  about  to  know  to  the 
depths  of  his  heart. 

She  made  a  great  effort  to  avoid  that  perception, 
to  see,  again,  his  external  self  alone.  Her  gaze  fixed 
itself  desperately  on  that  marred  sardonic  visage. 
She  tried  to  think  of  some  word  wherewith  to  break 
the  silence  that  was  revealing  him.  But  no  word 
came. 

And  before  her  reluctant  intuition  his  physical 
part  began,  so  to  speak,  to  shred  away,  and  leave 
his  real  personality  naked. 

She  seemed  to  see  a  being  consumed  by  flames, 
that  leaped  up  to  take  the  form  of  fantastic  sins, 
then  died  down,  to  be  instantly  revived  in  shapes 
more  monstrous  still.  They  spread  round  him. 
They  threatened  her.  They  were  on  the  point  of 
wrapping  her  in  their  withering  heat.  And  she 
could  not  retreat,  or  cry  out  for  help,  or  raise  before 
her  the  shield  that  had  always  made  her  invincible. 
She  remained  like  one  trapped  by  a  conflagration 
from  which  there  is  no  escape.  .  .  . 

All  at  once,  she  woke  from  this  nightmare  with  a 


58  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

start.  The  music  had  ceased.  Laughing  voices 
were  drawing  near. 

How  long  had  that  silence  endured?  A  moment, 
or  an  eternity? 

He  still  stood  there,  motionless,  calm,  slightly 
smiling.  She  heard  him  say,  in  the  same  tone  as 
before  : 

"Indeed,  that's  one  reason  why  men  so  seldom  stop 
talking.  .  .  ." 

Lady  Glastenwold  appeared  through  the  foliage. 

"Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting  here."  She  recog- 
nized Sebastian  Maure  with  a  chilly  nod.  "Shall 
we  say  good-night  to  the  Campobassi,  and  cut  our 
stick?" 

As  Ghirlaine  passed  him,  he  stood  aside  with  a 
bow.  She  lowered  her  eyes,  so  that  he  should  not 
discern  the  fear  in  them.  .  .  . 

While  the  motor-car  was  taking  the  two  women 
home,  turning  to  Lady  Maude  she  cried,  in  a  voice 
aquiver  with  hysteria: 

"I  can't  stand  this  place  any  longer!  I'm  going 
to  leave!" 

"Ah,  my  dear,  I  know  how  you  feel.  But  unfort- 
unately, you  can't  leave  Rome  just  now.  I  didn't 
want  to  tell  you  up  there:  I  thought  you  had  enough 
rotten  news  for  the  moment.  But  they  telephoned 
from  the  hotel  that  your  aunt's  down  ill — in  earnest, 
this  time,  poor  soul!  The  doctor's  been,  and  he 
thinks  it's  influenza.  Really,  you  know,  your  steam- 
heated  Americans  ought  to  keep  out  of  these  cold 
museums.  ." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  59 

But  Ghirlaine  was  thinking  of  Mme.  Semadeni's 
words : 

"  Events  descend  upon  us,  of  course.  Out  of  what 
has  been,  and  what  is  yet  to  be,  they  approach  like 
great,  slow-moving  winged  angels,  each  with  his  se- 
cret influence  to  work.  And  the  wind  of  their  wings 
sweeps  us  forward.  .  .  ." 

Toward  what? 


CHAPTER  IV 

MRS.  ALEXANDER  BELLAMY  endured  for  a  week — 
though  not  by  any  means  in  silence — all  the  historic 
effects  of  influenza.  Then,  sitting  up  in  bed,  a  clin- 
ical thermometer  stuck  rakishly  out  of  one  side  of  her 
mouth,  she  informed  her  physician,  her  nurse,  her 
maid,  and  her  niece,  that  she  was  going  to  breakfast 
on  sausage  and  griddle-cakes. 

"You  may  as  well  order  it,  Ghirlaine,  because  I 
am  bound  to  have  it.  The  worm  will  turn.  All  last 
night  I  dreamed  of  a  porterhouse  steak  and  hashed- 
brown  potatoes." 

"  She's  much  better  this  morning,"  vouchsafed  the 
doctor.  "A  little  plain,  nourishing  food " 

"There  is  no  such  thing  in  this  country,"  Mrs. 
Bellamy  retorted.  "It  has  got  to  be  either  fallals 
or  slops.  As  it  is,  my  sausages  will  probably  be 
dressed  up  in  paper  petticoats,  and  my  griddle-cakes 
covered  with  cinnamon  and  zabaione.  It's  only  one 
more  instance  of  the  artificiality  of  these  worn-out 
civilizations.  As  for  Rome,  there's  nothing  whole- 
some in  it!  Even  the  air  is  vitiated,  as  if  those 
old  Emperors  and  other  vile  creatures  had  breathed 
it  up  long  ago.  And  that  reminds  me,  my  child. 
You've  been  in  the  house  altogether  too  much,  these 
last  few  days.  You  look  pale.  Your  eyes  are  get- 

60 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  61 

ting  shadowy.  I  insist  on  your  going  out  and  stay- 
ing out.  Since  you  enjoy  these  people,  I  forbid  you 
to  refuse  any  more  of  their  invitations  on  my  account. 
To-night  you  shall  go  with  Donna  Letizia  to  the 
Spanish  Embassy  and  the  opera.  What  piece  are 
they  giving?" 

"Salome"  said  Ghirlaine  Bellamy. 

" Thank  Heaven  I'm  safe  in  bed!" 

Ghirlaine  sent  for  the  motor-car,  donned  hat  and 
furs,  and  called  at  the  Grand  Hotel.  She  hoped  to 
find  Lady  Glastenwold  still  in.  But  at  ten  o'clock, 
on  so  fine  a  day,  the  Englishwoman  was  off  already 
on  one  of  those  walks  that  might  land  her,  round 
luncheon-time,  far  away  in  the  country.  Ghirlaine 
told  the  chauffeur  to  drive  into  the  Borghese  Gardens. 

As  the  motor-car  entered  the  park,  she  read  again 
Vincent  Pamfort's  last  telegram  from  England: 

No  change.      Writing.     A  bientdt.  .  .  . 

Every  morning,  some  such  message  came  flying 
through  space  to  reassure  her.  Never  before  had 
she  felt  a  like  need.  The  self-sufficiency  which  had 
not  once  failed  her  before  was  perhaps  an  inheri- 
tance. 

The  late  Mr.  Bellamy  had  possessed  what  is  called 
a  "strong  character."  His  tastes,  though  fastidious, 
were,  for  a  rich  New  Yorker,  simple.  His  conscience 
was  quick,  his  mind  religious,  his  career  irreproach- 
able. He  lived  with  books  and  works  of  art,  sur- 
rounded by  a  small,  select,  rather  staid  coterie  of 


62  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

friends.  He  had  always  felt  that  to  be  born  a  Bel- 
lamy was  to  find  oneself  somewhat  superior  to  the 
usual  run. 

Ghirlaine's  mother  had  died  soon  after  bringing 
her  into  the  world.  It  was  he  who  had  ordered  the 
girl's  early  outlook  on  life.  She  grew  up  in  an  envi- 
ronment at  once  edifying,  sedate,  and  a  trifle  dull. 
Her  natural  purity,  her  instinctive  conventional  de- 
voutness,  had  been  well  defended  through  those 
rather  colorless  years,  and,  apparently,  fixed  in  her 
nature  for  good  and  all. 

But  at  Mr.  Bellamy's  death,  she  soon  issued,  as 
had  other  girlhood  friends  before  her,  into  more 
modern  fields.  There  her  name,  beauty,  and  fortune 
combined  to  make  her  welcome.  As  was  inevitable, 
in  an  age  of  international  marriages,  invitations  soon 
drew  her  abroad.  At  last,  thanks  largely  to  her  ex- 
ceptional social  charm  and  savoir  faire,  she  had  be- 
come a  brilliant  figure  in  the  great  world  on  both  sides 
of  the  Atlantic. 

Yet  all  the  airs  of  those  continental  ballrooms, 
charged,  as  it  were,  with  a  secret,  illicit  amorousness, 
had  not  affected  her  ideas  of  love  and  marriage.  She 
still  believed  there  must  be,  in  this  life,  but  one  man 
for  one  woman.  They  two  should  meet,  at  last,  as 
if  on  a  wind-swept  mountain-top,  all  the  world's 
ignoble  rumors  inaudible  far  below,  their  souls  full  of 
reverence  for  the  God  who  had  brought  them  heart 
to  heart. 

Time  and  again,  in  these  regions  of  cynicism  and 
deceit,  she  had  told  herself  she  would  only  find  that 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  63 

elsewhere.  However,  she  was  always  returning 
hither,  half  reluctant,  half  eager,  the  new  young  mon- 
daine  rejoicing  in  so  much  homage,  the  old  Puritan 
in  her  vaguely  apprehensive  of  something  still  un- 
developed. .  .  . 

But  now,  had  she  not  found,  after  all,  in  the  very 
midst  of  Vanity  Fair,  the  road  that  was  going  to  lead 
far  away,  to  the  serene  and  scrupulous  future  she 
longed  for? 

"If  only  it  could  have  happened  six  months  ago!" 

So  her  thoughts  returned  again  to  Sebastian  Maure. 

Hitherto,  she  had  encountered  evil  only  in  men 
held  more  or  less  in  check  by  fear  of  public  opinion. 
That  kind  could  be  met  with  a  woman's  ordinary 
weapons  of  self-defence.  But  might  not  such  arms 
prove  useless  against  this  one,  so  notoriously  derisive 
of  all  convention,  so  open  in  his  enmity  toward  re- 
straint? She  felt  the  incertitude  of  an  amazon,  well 
enough  equipped  for  accepted  modes  of  combat,  but 
suddenly  confronted  by  an  antagonist  who  is  going 
to  ignore  all  rules. 

For  she  knew  that  if  she  stood  her  ground,  if 
chance  kept  her  here  much  longer,  and  perhaps  even 
if  she  fled,  a  combat  between  them  was  inevitable. 

Once  more  she  tried  to  believe  her  apprehensions 
absurd.  She  was  always  surrounded  by  friends. 
Even  in  her  moments  of  solitude,  countless  normal 
persons  were  close  at  hand.  Besides,  to-day,  in  the 
places  where  she  moved,  such  a  clash  of  hostile  pur- 
poses could  no  longer  be  physical.  In  this  age,  a 
man,  of  no  matter  what  recklessness,  could  gain  no 


64  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

advantage  over  a  woman  unless  her  moral  resistance 
weakened. 

In  fact,  since  her  loathing  of  Sebastian  Maure  was 
more  intense  every  day,  she  ought  to  regard  him  with 
nothing  except  contempt. 

And  she  put  from  her  mind  a  dream  of  the  night 
before — in  which  she  had  found  herself  sinking  into  a 
lurid  sea,  while  struggling  in  his  arms.  .  .  . 

Soon  her  aunt  would  be  well.  They  would  travel 
north.  Everything  would  be  different.  .  .  . 

The  motor-car  was  running  along  beneath  ilex- 
trees.  All  at  once,  Ghirlaine  recognized,  on  the  foot- 
path, Ernesto  Sangallo.  She  halted  the  automobile. 
The  novelist  approached,  hat  in  hand,  his  white 
teeth  flashing  behind  his  jet-black  beard. 

"Fi  done,  Monsieur!  I  thought  you  were  always 
at  work  by  ten." 

"I  am  working  now.  When  I  sighted  you,  'he' 
was  just  asking,  'But  can  one  find  it  here?'  And 
'she'  was  about  to  answer,  'If  you  are  weak,  you 
may  have  to  seek  it  elsewhere.  But  if  you  are 
strong,  of  course,  you  can  find  it  here." 

While  speaking,  he  looked  at  her  attentively  with 
his  large,  sympathetic  eyes. 

"And  now,"  he  added,  briskly,  "I'm  going  home 
to  write  it  all  down." 

"Then  let  me  give  you  a  lift." 

"But,  dear  lady — the  appearances!  You  forget 
we're  in  Rome." 

"Don't  be  absurd.  As  soon  as  you  jump  in  my 
car  you're  on  American  soil.  There  we  have  fewer 


THE  ISLJE  OF  LIFE  65 

of  the  appearances — and  just  as  much  of  the  sub- 
stance." 

"More,  much  more,"  he  acknowledged,  seating 
himself  beside  her.  "I  deplore  this  attitude  that  the 
Latin  races  force  their  young  folk  to  assume  toward 
one  another.  For  really,  you  know,  the  fault  isn't  in 
temperament,  but  in  education,  if  Italian  men  have 
no  genuine  respect  for  women.  It's  the  mysterious, 
the  unknown,  that  is  dangerous.  What  is  under- 
stood no  longer  disturbs." 

After  a  moment,  she  asked: 

"Are  you  sure  that  what  is  understood  no  longer 
disturbs?" 

"Certainly.  The  familiar  is  never  terrifying,  for 
instance." 

"But  suppose  one's  reluctant  to  familiarize  one- 
self with  what  is  evil?" 

"  That  would  be  a  mistake.  For  the  minute  you've 
fathomed  evil,  you  perceive  that  it's  not  really  evil  at 
all." 

The  green  foliage,  touched  here  and  there  by  a  half- 
veiled  marble  figure,  streamed  past  on  either  side. 
At  length,  she  exclaimed: 

" I  can't  believe  that!  Some  things,  some  persons, 
are  bad  through  and  through." 

"Nothing  is  bad  through  and  through,"  he  re- 
sponded, quietly. 

Against  her  will,  she  pronounced  the  name  she  was 
trying  to  put  from  her  mind: 

"And,  as  an  example,  this — Sebastian  Maure?" 

Sangallo  made  no  reply. 


66  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"You  don't  answer  that!" 

"Not  because  there's  no  answer.  Only  because,  if 
you'll  pardon  me,  I  have  no  right  to  expose  what  I 
seem  to  see  in  that  heart,  to  some  one  who  has  no 
interest  in  its  welfare." 

She  felt  that  she  had  received  a  subtle,  if  uninten- 
tional reproach. 

"At  least,  in  such  a  beautiful  place,  we  might 
find  another  subject.  What  about  your  characters, 
whose  conversation  I  interrupted  back  there?  'He' 
had  asked,  'Can  one  find  it  here?'  Find  what?" 

"What  are  we  all  trying  to  find?"  returned  San- 
gallo. 

"And  her  answer?  That  if  he  was  weak,  he  would 
have  to  seek  it  elsewhere?  That  if  he  was  strong,  he 
could  find  it  where  he  was?" 

"Only  a  truism.  The  strong  eventually  find  what 
they  seek  in  their  own  souls,  whatever  their  environ- 
ment. The  weak  may  need  help  from  without — 
from  other  places,  or  other  natures." 

Ahead,  the  trees  parted.  A  sunlit  vista  appeared, 
gold-drenched  and  indistinct,  like  a  way  leading  far 
off  to  a  place  of  dreams,  too  nearly  perfect  to  be 
reality. 

In  low  tones,  she  repeated: 

"  So  it's  the  weak  who  must  seek  it  elsewhere.  .  .  . 
Why  did  you  put  that  speech  in  the  woman's 
mouth?" 

"Because  through  the  mouth  of  a  woman  so  often 
come  to  us  others  truth,  hope,  salvation." 

She  said  no  more.    He,  for  his  part,  seemed  lost  in 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  67 

meditation,  while  gazing  at  her  with  a  far-away  look 
in  his  eyes.  The  motor-car  flashed  through  the  Pin- 
cian  Gate,  and  slackened  speed  in  the  Via  Veneto. 
The  white  facade  of  the  Hotel  Excelsior  was  in  sight. 

Ernesto  Sangallo  alighted,  thanked  her,  and  went 
away.  She  returned  to  the  hotel,  thinking: 

"Is  he,  as  people  say,  a  visionary?  Or  has  life 
such  meanings,  such  answers?" 

And  she  had  a  shrinkage  of  moral  certainty  and 
pride,  a  sense  of  having  glimpsed,  from  a  narrow  har- 
bor, a  bit  of  the  open  sea.  .  .  . 

Indeed,  she  did  not  recover  fully  from  these  impres- 
sions till  tea-time,  when  she  dropped  in  at  the  Palazzo 
Campobasso. 

It  was  twilight.  On  the  "noble  floor,"  a  servant 
ushered  her  into  a  long  room  hung  with  yellowish 
Venetian  brocade  and  spread  with  orange-colored 
Damascus  rugs.  Near  the  great  carved  fireplace,  in  a 
haze  of  cigarette-smoke,  several  persons  were  sitting 
round  a  tea-table. 

Princess  Campobasso  came  forward,  in  a  clinging 
house-dress  of  violet  silk,  her  red  hair  glinting  like 
metal  in  the  lamplight.  Ghirlaine  saw,  behind  her, 
rising  out  of  the  shadows,  the  fierce  mustache  of 
Marchese  Tito,  and  Don  Leone's  receding  forehead. 
There,  too,  appeared  the  soft  brown  hair  and  eyes 
of  Donna  Letizia  Torquato,  Mme.  de  Chaumont's 
spirituelle  thin  face,  the  watchful  eyes  of  little  Donna 
Isotta,  Donna  Dora  in  her  upholstered  wheel-chair, 
and  Lady  Glastenwold. 

The  Englishwoman's  scarlet  cheeks  bore  witness 


68  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

to  the  long  jaunt  just  finished.  In  that  perfumed 
air,  she  spread  round  her  a  sweet  scent  of  out-of- 
doors.  She  made  Ghirlaine  sit  down  beside  her, 
squeezing  her  hand.  For  Vincent  Pamfort's  sister, 
though  she  had  nearly  all  the  true  British  prejudices, 
could  not  help  being  fond  of  at  least  this  American 
girl! 

In  a  guileless  tone,  she  inquired: 

"Anything  new?" 

"No.     I  called  for  you  this  morning." 

"So  sorry  you  didn't  show  up  in  time  to  go  along. 
But  then,  poor  old  girl,  you'd  have  balked  at  fifteen 
miles,  and  missed  a  wonderful  day.  I  tramped  half- 
way to  Tivoli,  and  saw  a  long  white  beard  floating 
through  the  olive-groves,  and  carne  on  old  Mr.  El- 
zevir, mooning  over  the  hillsides.  I  suspect  when  I 
hove  along  he  was  talking  to  the  flowers.  At  any 
rate,  he  told  me  some  remarkable  things  about  them. 
This  evening,  it's  just  a  little  shocking  to  see  Princess 
Betty  wearing  some.  As  if  she  had  pinned  on  some 
little  dead  creatures  that  had  been  very  wise  and 
ambitious." 

Princess  Campobasso  laughed,  looked  down  at  her 
orchids,  and  glanced  at  Marchese  Tito. 

"There's  a  horribly  unromantic  idea!" 

"  He's  a  strange  old  man,  John  Elzevir.  A  recluse,, 
a  teetotaler,  a  vegetarian " 

"No  wine?"  asked  Tito,  in  alarm.     "No  meat?" 

"Not  even  poulet  saute?  "  piped  little  Donna  Isotta. 
"Not  even  tournedos  Rossini?" 

"Not  even  a  nice,  crispy  slice  of  bacon,  my  dear." 


THE  ISL&JOF  LIFE  69 

"I  see  nothing  so  strange  in  that,"  said  Mme.  de 
Chaumont,  in  her  soft  voice  which  was  always  a  trifle 
unsteady.  "Many  men  who  are  spiritually  in- 
clined- 
Donna  Dora,  nodding  her  small  head  solemnly, 
assented: 

"In  Lent,  my  brother  always  makes  magro  for  the 
forty  days." 

"Oi,"  exclaimed  Tito,  shuddering,  "that  is  piety! 
As  for  me,  when  I  think  of  a  beefsteak,  I  must  have 
it!  You  should  have  seen  us  last  night — or  rather, 
this  morning.  That  Sebastian  Maure!  Per  Bacco, 
there's  an  appetite  that  has  my  admiration!" 

"That's  all  he  is,  your  Sebastian  Maure — an  ap- 
petite," Princess  Betty  retorted,  with  the  frowning 
smile  of  a  woman  only  playing  at  disapproval. 

"And  a  terribly  perverse  one,"  added  Mme.  de 
Chaumont.  "Those  books  of  his  are  like  a  miasma 
in  a  house — "  She  stopped  short.  Her  sensitive 
face  slowly  flushed. 

"But,"  protested  Leone,  his  watery  eyes  suffused 
with  enthusiasm,  "  they're  literature.  They're  the— 
What  was  it  Hector  said  about  them?  'The  bright 
key  to  many  long-imprisoned  truths."1 

Donna  Letizia  regarded  her  son's  weak  counte- 
nance sadly.  But  Lady  Glastenwold  exclaimed: 

"Fiddle-dee-dee!  They're  the  key  to  a  lot  of 
wretched  things  that  most  of  mankind,  in  civilized 
countries,  have  locked  up,  these  days,  in  the  depths 
of  their  natures." 

"  You're  right,"  Donna  Letizia  assented.    "Nearly 


yo  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

every  one,  I  suppose,  is  more  or  less  susceptible  to 
perverse  influences.  But  the  perversities  we  don't 
know  or  think  of,  that  are  recalled  to  our  minds  or 
introduced  to  us,  don't  tempt  us.  When  you  make 
a  bad  idea  familiar,  it's  apt  to  lose  its  repulsive 
look.  Lord  Chesterfield  said  if  men  stuck  to  their 
own  vices  things  would  be  vastly  better.  If  men 
were  never  tempted  to  descend  below  their  own 
natural  levels " 

"But,  Mamma,"  said  Don  Leone,  "Sebastian 
Maure  is  sincere.  He  believes  in  what  he  writes." 

"And  practises  what  he  believes,"  interjected 
Princess  Betty.  "When  he  says  one  should  take 
what  he  wants,  he  doesn't  stop  there!  That  affair 
in  the  Caucasus " 

Glancing  at  Donna  Dora,  she  paused. 

"By  the  way,  how  did  that  come  out?" 

"Well,  of  course,  if  it's  true  it  was  shocking.  But 
thrilling,  too.  They  say  that  as  soon  as  the  convent 
could  send  out  an  alarm,  he  was  chased  through  the 
mountains  by  the  father,  the  fiance,  and  a  swarm  of 
retainers.  No  doubt  all  covered  with  bandoliers, 
and  daggers,  and  so  on!  There  was  a  running  fight 
between  the  two  parties.  He  got  away,  and  worked 
down  to  the  Caspian.  They  were  looked  for  at  every 
port.  But  unlimited  money  will  do  anything.  In 
the  end,  or  so  the  story  goes,  Persia  swallowed  them 
up." 

"And  what  has  become  of  her?" 

"Who  knows?  I  must  ask  Mme.  Semadeni. 
She's  lived  in  the  Caucasus." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  71 

"  Teh,  tchl "  Tito  shook  his  head,  and  helped  him- 
self to  a  buttered  muffin.  "I  don't  believe  all  that 
stuff.  It's  too  deuced  spectacular.  We're  in  the 
twentieth  century,  now.  Or  is  it  the  nineteenth?  I 
can  never  remember." 

"The  twentieth  century,"  said  Donna  Letizia, 
"only  extends  to  the  borders  of  civilization." 

"And  you  know,  Mamma,"  Don  Leone  suggested, 
slyly,  "that  even  on  Italian  soil,  when  one  gets  down 
south,  where  Tito  comes  from " 

"Eh?"  the  Sicilian  blurted  out,  after  bolting  a 
mouthful  of  muffin.  "Miss  Bellamy,  I  leave  it  to 
you — are  these  Romans  narrow?  Within  five  kilo- 
metres— in  fact,  just  outside  their  marvellous  city — 
you'll  find  human  beings  living  in  caves  in  the  side  of 
a  hill." 

"But  in  Sicily!"  chuckled  Don  Leone,  wriggling 
with  delight.  "  In  Sicily,  some  of  them  haven't  come 
down  on  the  ground.  Grandpapa  used  to  tell  a  story 
of  a  whole  family,  of  four  generations,  who  lived  in  a 
chestnut- tree.  The  old  ones  still  wore  little  tails." 

"Prince  Torquato  has  his  own  sense  of  humor. 
Sicily  is  like  anywhere  else.  Only,  in  many  respects, 
much  better." 

"A  lonely,  wild,  lawless  waste!" 

" Travel.     It  may  broaden  your  mind." 

"  A  place  where  anything  might  happen !  Another 
Caucasus!" 

"Another  Paradise!" 

"Then  why  are  you  up  here?" 

Tito  risked  a  sidelong  glance  at  Princess  Betty, 
and  twirled  his  mustache.  She  remarked : 


72  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"My  dear  Leone,  soldiers  can't  always  be  where 
they'd  like." 

"Why  did  he  become  a  soldier,  then?" 

Tito,  leaning  forward,  replied,  as  ferociously  as 
possible : 

"Because  I  love  the  sight  of  blood!  Because  I 
dote  on  carnage!" 

A  new  voice  was  heard : 

"Could  you  guarantee  us  a  little  carnage  on 
Thursday?  Perhaps  you'll  remember  we  haven't 
killed  for  a  week." 

It  was  Don  Livio  Campobasso.  Tall,  immaculate, 
cool,  his  eye-glass  flashing,  he  joined  the  circle.  Sit- 
ting down,  he  whispered  mysteriously  in  his  daugh- 
ter's ear.  The  child's  face  shone  with  a  smile  of 
pride.  She  got  down  from  her  chair,  and  prepared 
his  tea-cup. 

Princess  Betty  had  one  of  those  slight  facial  con- 
tractions which  betray  a  yawn  smothered  as  soon  as 
begun.  Her  husband  turned  to  Ghirlaine: 

"You're  coming  out  this  week,  I  hope?  I  fancy 
the  fine  weather's  set.  We  shall  have  a  big  field." 

"Yesterday,"  said  Tito,  frowning  at  his  sword-hilt 
like  a  man  of  affairs,  "I  sold  a  vast  brute  of  a  hunter 
to  Maure." 

"Good  Heavens!  Must  the  conversation  always 
slip  round  to  him?" 

"As  I'm  not  overfond  of  his  company,"  Lady 
Glastenwold  remarked,  "I'm  off.  Besides,  I've 
Brian  Dungannan  coming  to  dinner." 

"The  sculptor?    Isn't  he  rather — original?" 

"  Delightf ully  so.     But  not  in  the  Maurian  sense 


THE  ISLE-  OF  LIFE  73 

of  the  word.  However,  I'm  planning  to  have  three 
chaperons.  If  you  think  a  woman  of  my  looks  really 
needs  them." 

"Is  he  going  to  marry  his  model,  that  peasant 

girl?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.  If  it  occurred  to  him  some 
day." 

"Rather  breezy,  your  dinner-guest!" 

"You  wouldn't  understand  till  you  knew  him. 
Quite  illuminating,  his  point  of  view." 

"Another  bright  key  to  many  long-imprisoned 
truths?" 

"  Good-by.  Coming,  Ghirlaine?  Thanks  so  much 
for  the  muffins.  ..." 

Ghirlaine  took  Lady  Maude  to  the  Grand  Hotel, 
and  went  home  to  dress. 

That  evening,  she  dined  at  Mme.  de  Chaumont's 
pretty  villino  near  the  Porta  Pia. 

De  Chaumont  had  a  good  deal  of  money.  He  in- 
sisted on  hospitality  of  a  tone  which  made  it  rather 
doubtful  whether  his  family  tree  was  as  well-rooted 
as  he  pretended  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain. 
The  dinner-table,  decorated  with  Parma  violets  and 
white  lilacs,  was  laden  with  Venetian  glassware  and 
candle-sticks  of  carved  gold.  The  menu  proved  to 
be  somewhat  too  long.  Most  of  the  courses  were 
composed  of  viands  brought  from  a  distance.  The 
wines  were  exceptionally  expensive.  De  Chaumont 
thought  all  this  very  smart. 

His  wife,  who  loved  simplicity,  and  was  not  in 
sympathy  with  half  the  guests,  could  hardly  have 


74  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

seemed  more  amiable.  She  even  charred  the  end  of 
a  cigarette,  to  give  countenance  to  those  ladies  who 
wanted  to  smoke. 

Ghirlaine  sat  between  an  officer  of  the  German 
Emperor's  Gardes  du  Corps,  and  the  Chinese  charge 
d'affaires.  The  latter  was  a  delicate,  owlish  courtier 
with  shaven  forehead,  resplendent  in  mauve  and 
apricot-colored  silks.  In  fluent  French,  from  which 
not  even  the  "r's"  were  lacking,  he  discussed  ship- 
wrecks, Machiavelli,  the  Futurist  School  in  painting. 
He  admired  the  Futurists  for  one  thing.  With  them, 
the  nude  was  taboo,  since  the  nude  was  no  longer 
incidental  to  daily  life. 

To  this,  de  Chaumont,  with  an  exceedingly  arch 
expression,  was  about  to  reply,  when  Mme.  Berthe 
gave  the  signal  to  rise.  It  was  after  nine  o'clock. 
Ghirlaine  and  Donna  Letizia  Torquato  said  good- 
night. They  were  bound  for  the  reception  of  the 
Spanish  Ambassador,  and,  later,  the  opera. 

In  the  ample,  gilded  apartments  of  the  Spanish 
Embassy,  perhaps  a  hundred  persons,  on  their  way 
to  the  opera-house  or  dances,  had  already  arrived. 
The  anterooms  were  full  of  footmen  in  the  orange- 
and-red  Royal  liveries  of  Spain.  Beyond,  the  same 
long  vistas  appeared:  high  walls  lined  with  tapestries, 
marble  floors  reflecting  the  light,  ceilings  covered 
with  vivid  legs  and  arms,  glitter,  vastness,  formality. 
And  the  same  diplomatic  and  military  uniforms  were 
collecting  there,  beneath  the  baroque  chandeliers;  the 
same  smiles  and  bows  were  beginning;  the  same  cross- 
glances  and  surreptitious  contacts  were  in  prepara- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  75 

tion;  the  same  words  of  scandal,  of  destructive  in- 
nuendo, and  of  betrayal,  were  ready  to  do  their  work. 
.  .  .  Ghirlaine  was  glad  when  Donna  Letizia  sug- 
gested that  the  opera  must  have  commenced.  Once 
more  on  the  staircase,  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  as  if 
she  had  escaped  from  infected  air.  .  .  . 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me?"  she  thought, 
almost  angrily,  pulling  her  fur  cloak  about  her  with 
a  shiver.  "It  seems  that  I  can  no  longer  see  any- 
thing normally!  ..." 

Outside  the  Palazzo  Barberini  they  secured,  from 
the  tangle  of  vehicles,  the  old,  boat-like  carriage, 
drawn  by  a  pair  of  those  gigantic  horses  affected  by 
the  Torquato  family.  To  a  clatter  of  hoofs,  they 
set  out  for  the  Costanzi. 

Before  the  theatre,  the  carriage  rumbled  into  an 
empty  porte-cochere.  The  late-comers,  entering, 
had  their  ears  assailed  by  a  harsh,  discordant  blare. 
The  opera  was  in  full  blast. 

An  usher  had  opened  the  door  of  Donna  Letizia's 
box,  when  a  voice  was  heard  behind  them,  raised  in 
profane  soliloquy.  Down  the  corridor  came  Andreas 
Romanovitch,  at  a  shambling  trot,  smiting  his  brow 
with  a  hand  on  which  glittered  some  preposterous 
rings. 

"  Ghastly  form  of  wit !  Frightful  ingenuity !  The 
worst  of  it  is,  it  really  looks  like  me!" 

The  Russian  perceived  them.  He  stopped  short. 
His  eye-glass  dropped.  His  forked  beard  sagged 
down. 

"What  looks  like  you,  Monsieur  Tchernaieff?" 
laughed  Donna  Letizia. 


76  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Parbleu,  the  head  on  the  charger!  I've  just  been 
behind  the  scenes  and  examined  it.  Take  my  word, 
the  features  are  much  too  like  to  be  so  by  accident. 
Some  one's  been  playing  a  joke  on  me.  What's 
more,  I  know  whose  wretched,  sardonic  humor  I 
suspect!" 

"Who  is  the  Salome  to-night?" 

"Fiammetta  Innocenti." 

"Come  in  with  us,  and  see  what  she's  doing." 

"Please  excuse  me!  I  watched  the  last  rehearsal. 
Such  relish,  in  such  a  part,  is  too  terrifying  for  me. 
I  advise  you  to  turn  round  and  let  me  take  you 
home." 

"Later,  perhaps." 

"Have  your  way.     But  you  will  suffer!" 

He  disappeared.  Donna  Letizia  and  Ghirlaine 
entered  the  box. 

Round  the  darkened  auditorium,  the  three  tiers  of 
boxes,  and  the  two  galleries  above,  bore  up  innumer- 
able vague  faces.  Against  the  green  rim  of  foot- 
lights, the  conductor's  arms  moved  rhythmically. 

On  the  stage,  before  the  moonlit  palace  of  Herod, 
Salome  was  singing  in  the  ear  of  John  the  Baptist. 
One  saw  a  blonde,  pallid  creature,  crimson-mouthed, 
of  a  snake-like  suppleness,  clad  in  a  transparent  robe 
that  seemed  little  more  than  moonbeams.  She  ap- 
proached the  ragged  saint,  then  shrank  away,  with 
provocative  gestures,  diabolically  ingenious  and 
graceful.  Her  thin  voice,  acrid  with  the  timbre  of 
hysteria,  sounded  strange  depths  of  emotional  per- 
versity. She  was  not  a  woman,  but  the  personifica- 
tion of  eroticism,  harassing  purity. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  77 

"I  will  kiss  your  lips,  lokanaan.  ...  I  will  kiss 
your  lips.  ..." 

Ghirlaine  shuddered.  From  the  stage  was  wafted 
forth,  on  those  wellnigh  intolerable  waves  of  sound, 
a  disordered  sensuality.  This  influence  approached 
her,  enveloped  her,  recalled  to  her  another  influence 
that  it  resembled — that  had  enwrapped  her,  one 
night,  in  the  shadowy  palm-gallery  of  the  Palazzo 
Campobasso. 

And  the  feeling  stole  over  her  that  somewhere,  in 
this  breathless  audience,  his  eyes,  and  thoughts,  were 
fixed  on  her  again. 

She  made  out,  in  a  near-by  box,  Princess  Campo- 
basso's  tense  figure,  and  behind  her  Tito's  eyes  di- 
lated in  bewilderment.  Farther  on,  she  saw  Don 
Leone's  open  mouth,  and  Hector  de  Chaumont's  face, 
full  of  somnolent  delight.  At  a  distance  sat  Mme. 
Semadeni.  She  was  not  looking  at  the  singer,  but 
at  something,  or  some  one,  straight  across  the  the- 
atre, lost  in  the  gloom. 

Whom  was  she  staring  at  so  curiously? 

But  Mme.  Semadeni  was  looking  now  at  Ghirlaine. 


CHAPTER  V 

WHEN  the  curtain  fell,  Sebastian  Maure  left  his 
seat,  went  back  to  the  end  of  the  first-tier  corridor, 
and  descended  upon  the  stage. 

Herod's  palace  was  tumbling  apart.  The  gilt 
cuirasses  of  the  Tetrarch's  guard  were  disappearing 
into  the  wings.  Mechanics  in  long,  dirty  blouses 
swarmed  everywhere. 

The  intruder,  with  the  assurance  of  one  who  has 
paid  his  way,  passed  behind  the  back  drop,  climbed 
a  staircase,  and  knocked  on  a  shabby  door.  Inside, 
a  little  dog  raised  a  falsetto  bark. 

"Avanti!" 

He  entered  Salome's  dressing-room. 

The  place  was  brilliantly  lighted,  small,  and  hot. 
At  a  disorderly  toilet-table  sat  Fiammetta  Innocenti, 
her  wig  off,  a  towel  round  her  neck,  her  face  covered 
with  a  mixture  of  make-up  and  olive-oil.  Behind 
her,  a  short  fat  woman  was  whisking  out  of  the  way 
a  tiny  Florentine  dog,  pale-yellow,  shaved  like  a 
poodle.  But  the  beast  continued  to  yelp  at  him 
spasmodically. 

To  this  greeting  the  singer  added  a  scream  of  her 
own,  when  she  saw  who  was  there: 

"  Get  out !    How  dare  you ! " 

"I  never  let  people  change  their  minds  at  my  ex- 
pense." 

78 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  79 

He  sat  down  on  a  trunk,  picked  up  an  atomizer, 
and  sprayed  his  chin  with  verveine.  She  glanced  at 
him  keenly,  then  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

He  had  drunk  too  much  with  his  dinner.  Just 
now,  however,  his  mind  was  rather  more  active  than 
usual.  But  this  activity  was  veiled  by  his  customary 
impassive  manner.  Even  so  expert  a  student  of 
mankind  as  the  Innocenti  was  baffled. 

"I  thought,"  she  confessed,  while  rubbing  her 
cheeks  with  the  towel,  "that  it  was  Andreas.  Or 
Marchese  Tito.  Or  the  Director." 

"Why  every  one  else,  but  not  me?" 

"Because  I  have  grease  all  over  my  face." 

"I've  seen  that  before,  somewhere  or  other." 

"Not  here." 

"There  always  has  to  be  a  first  time." 

"I  differ." 

But  she  smiled  at  herself  in  the  mirror.  He  failed 
to  respond  to  that. 

"You  prefer  olive-oil,  I  see,  in  this  incarnation? 
When  you  were  Poppaea  Sabina,  you  know,  it  was 
asses'  milk.  There  were  five  hundred  of  them,  shod 
with  silver  and  covered  with  nets  of  Tyrian  purple. 
They  ambled  behind  your  carriage  when  you  and 
Nero  junketed  down  to  Baia." 

"What  nonsense!  There's  not  enough  grease  in 
asses'  milk  to  take  off  paint."  She  added,  hi  the 
rough  Neapolitan  dialect: 

"Wine  for  dry  throats,  bread  for  flat  stomachs,  the 
gallows  for  fools — and  grease  for  make-up!" 

"I  suspect  that  saying,  in  its  original  form,  belongs 
to  the  Camorra." 


8o  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Perhaps,"  she  replied,  indifferently.  "If,  in- 
deed, there  is  such  a  thing  any  more." 

This  remark  he  had  heard  delivered  solemnly  by 
more  than  one  desperate  character  in  the  south,  bent 
on  amusement  at  the  expense  of  a  foreigner.  It  sug- 
gested to  Sebastian  that  the  Innocenti  herself  might 
have  been  mixed  up,  at  some  time  or  other,  with  the 
"Beautiful  Reformed  Society."  That  would  hardly 
be  surprising.  The  Camorra  had  members  in  nearly 
every  walk  of  life,  from  the  gutter  to  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies.  And  this  singer  had  been  born  in  the 
slums  of  Naples. 

She  was  one  of  those  rare  products  of  the  depths 
whom  ambition  predestines  to  an  extraordinary  ca- 
reer. Her  natural  talent  had  been  helped  by  her 
strangely  unplebeian  good  looks.  Her  intelligence 
had  taken  advantage  of  every  chance  for  self-better- 
ment. With  all  this,  she  had  a  reputation  for  abso- 
lute cynicism.  At  least  one  young  man  had  at- 
tempted her  life,  and  then  killed  himself,  because  she 
had  used  him  long  enough. 

"Where  is  Andreas  to-night?"  she  inquired,  while 
powdering  her  throat. 

She  had  quickly  resumed  her  habitual  attractive- 
ness. Despite  her  history,  she  displayed  a  face  of 
peculiar  innocence — large-eyed,  clear-browed,  almost 
childlike.  Only  her  lips  were  a  trifle  too  full.  As 
Sebastian  Maure  had  said,  she  resembled  the  bust 
of  Nero's  wife  in  the  Uffizzi  Gallery. 

"I  haven't  seen  Andreas  this  evening.  Maybe 
he's  noticed  the  head  on  the  charger,  and  gone  home 
to  sulk." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  81 

"Why  did  you  do  that?    I  can't  see  the  point." 

"He'll  see  it,  though." 

"But  it  isn't  necessary  to  kill  Andreas,  in  order  to 
kiss  him." 

"All  the  same,  there's  a  certain  resemblance." 

Steps  sounded  outside  the  door.  At  that  moment, 
she  sneezed:  perhaps  some  powder  had  flown  up  her 
nose.  But  Sebastian  recalled  the  old  signal  of  cau- 
tion used  by  the  Camorristi.  By  way  of  reply,  he 
imitated  the  mew  of  a  cat,  which  meant,  in  the  same 
code,  "Here  comes  the  victim."  She  turned  round 
in  amazement.  He  was  still  grinning  at  her  when  in 
marched  Andreas,  Tito,  and  de  Chaumont. 

"  Wretched  fumiste!"  the  Russian  shouted  at  Se- 
bastian Maure.  "When  that  head  appeared  out  of 
the  well,  all  the  Hunt  Club  box  rolled  round  on  their 
chairs.  The  scene  was  spoiled.  I  presume  you're 
here  to  apologize?" 

Looking  at  Fiammetta  askance,  he  added,  re- 
flectively: 

"If  not,  what  the  devil  is  he  doing  in  this  galley?" 

"Are  these  gentlemen  your  seconds?"  inquired 
Sebastian. 

"Many,  many  thanks!  I'll  wait  till  your  hand 
and  eye  are  more  unsteady.  Life  may  be  all  sorts  of 
a  bore;  but  I  know  some  pleasanter  ways  of  with- 
drawing from  it." 

The  Innocenti  gazed  at  Sebastian  Maure. 

"Have  you  killed  many  men  in  duels?"  she  asked 
him.  Her  red  lips  parted  in  almost  infantile  antici- 
pation. Andreas  growled: 


82  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"To  look  at  him  you  might  know  he's  smashed 
each  of  the  Ten  Commandments  into  bits.  It's  the 
grief  of  his  life  that  there  aren't  but  ten  to  break. 
He  has  a  grudge  against  Moses  on  that  account." 

"Sacrilege!"  Fiammetta  declared,  and  turned 
grave.  Andreas,  for  his  part,  looked  startled. 

"So  it  is,"  he  assented,  in  humble  tones.  "And  I 
ask  pardon  of  God." 

"Good,"  exclaimed  Fiammetta.  "And  now,  get 
out  at  once,  all  of  you,  and  let  me  dress." 

"Is  it  absolutely  necessary  to  be  so  cruel?"  asked 
de  Chaumont,  simpering. 

"Naturally.  You  can  see  for  yourself  that  while 
you're  in  here  there's  no  room." 

Sebastian  stood  up. 

"Poppaea,  you're  coming  with  us  to  supper." 

It  was  less  an  invitation  than  a  command.  She 
looked  at  him  in  astonishment;  her  eyes  flashed;  then 
an  expression  of  pleasure  touched  her  face.  No 
doubt  she  found  it  a  new  experience  to  be  ordered 
about  by  a  man.  But,  immediately  recovering  her- 
self, she  began  to  make  conditions: 

"Any  more  women?" 

"Why  should  there  be?" 

"Then  I  accept — if  I  may  eat  garlic." 

"We'll  all  eat  garlic,"  de  Chaumont  assured  her, 
with  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"That  won't  be  necessary,  Monsieur,"  she  re- 
torted, and  slammed  the  door.  .  .  . 

The  Regina  was  a  restaurant  the  real  life  of  which 
began  round  midnight.  Inside  the  vestibule,  a  door 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  83 

on  the  left  gave  access  to  a  long  room  where  one 
might  sup  surrounded  by  officers,  actresses,  young 
nobles,  and  demi-mondaines.  But  those  who  pre- 
ferred seclusion  passed  this  door  by,  traversed  a  dark 
alley  covered  with  trellises,  and  found,  toward  the 
rear  of  the  building,  aligned  against  the  exterior  wall, 
a  row  of  cabinets  particuliers.  In  one  of  these,  Se- 
bastian Maure  ensconced  his  party. 

Fiammetta,  who  had  not  dined  before  singing,  was 
hungry.  They  ate  an  Italian  meal — a  soup  of  mul- 
let, lobster,  cuttle-fish,  whiting,  and  mussels;  red 
mushrooms  stewed  in  oil,  tomatoes  and  garlic;  suck- 
ing-goat in  a  sauce  of  chillies  and  anchovies,  and  a 
salad  of  white  truffles  from  Piedmont.  But  every 
one  drank  with  each  course  whatever  he  liked.  The 
wine-bottles  and  liqueur-flasks  formed  a  phalanx  on 
the  table. 

Smoke  filled  the  air.  The  Innocenti,  who  had  to 
choose  between  hoarseness  and  masculine  resent- 
ment, resigned  herself  to  the  former. 

The  room  boasted  a  large  oil-painting  of  a  nymph, 
a  sofa,  and  a  piano.  Andreas,  sitting  down  at  this 
instrument,  dashed  off  the  first  bars  of  a  scherzo. 
But  no  two  octaves  were  in  tune.  A  groan  rose  from 
his  audience.  Tito  dragged  him  off  the  piano-stool. 

"Che  porcheria — what  a  mess!" 

"No  fault  of  mine,"  Andreas  replied.  "In  fact,  I 
think  this  is  the  very  machine  that  Leone  filled  with 
Asti  spumante" 

"  Leone  will  never  grow  up  if  he  lives  to  a  hundred.'* 

"He'll  surprise  every  one  if  he  lives  to  thirty!" 


84  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"What  could  you  expect  of  a  house  that's  been  too 
proud  for  five  hundred  years  to  marry  beneath  it? 
The  old  Prince  is  crazy.  Donna  Letizia's  husband 
used  to  chase  the  family  priest  round  the  table.  This 
boy's  making  haste  to  kill  himself  before  he  dies  of 
neurasthenia.  One  has  to  pity  his  mother.  She's 
good  stock;  but  they  let  her  into  the  Casa  Torquato 
too  late  to  save  the  line.  In  fact,  that  family  is  in 
the  puree." 

"And  the  Brazzazzi?  If  they're  to  continue,  Don 
Giulio  will  have  to  look  sharp." 

"  Oh,  no  house  can  be  called  extinct  while  the  dis- 
taff side  remains." 

"Donna  Dora?  One  doesn't  marry  an  invalid,  no 
matter  how  big  her  dowry.  Any  man  her  equal  in 
rank  would  want  also  a  healthy  mother.  One  always 
thinks  of  the  children.  It's  human  nature." 

Thus  Tito.    But  Fiammetta  corrected  him: 

"Princes  think  of  them — beforehand — because 
they  have  something  fine  to  leave  them." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Andreas,  "some, of  us  have  too 
much  affection  for  our  unborn  children  to  wish  them 
the  tragedy  of  becoming  our  heirs." 

The  Innocenti  protested: 

11  Car o  mio,  if  you  intend  to  take  life  seriously  again 
to-night,  I'm  going  home  to  Ki-ki.  Santa  Eufemia 
Vergine  deliver  me  hereafter  from  a  man  with  a 
conscience!" 

' '  Hereafter ! ' '  Andreas  turned  to  Sebastian.  ' '  My 
poor  friend,  she  says  to  my  face  that  I'm  only  an  ep- 
isode." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  85 

Sebastian  glanced  at  Fiammetta.  She  was  lean- 
ing forward,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  polished 
finger-nails  curled  up  under  her  full,  round  chin. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with  a  sort  of  blank> 
misty  speculation.  And  there  flashed  between  them 
two  looks,  more  subtle  than  question  and  answer — 
the  swift  intercourse  of  two  natures  that  recognize 
each  other.  ...  But  instantly,  he  made  his  eyes 
illegible.  She  straightened  herself,  almost  angrily, 
with  a  flush,  like  one  who  has  had  an  unaccustomed, 
and  unexpected,  rebuff. 

Sebastian  replied  to  Andreas: 

"Eh,  we're  all  episodes!  Though  few  have  cour- 
age enough  to  admit  it.  Take  more  champagne. 
The  churches  will  all  be  open  again  to-morrow.  .  .  . 
Three  hundred  and  fifty  churches,  basilicas,  and 
cathedrals,  with  little  episodes  running  in  and  out  of 
them!  Wait  a  minute,  though!  The  marriages 
aren't  so  ridiculous,  after  all!" 

Throwing  back  his  head,  he  uttered  a  harsh,  bark- 
ing laugh.  Fiammetta  involuntarily  crossed  herself. 

His  hour  for  outrageous  conversation  had  nearly 
struck.  The  Innocenti,  perceiving  this,  looked  round 
for  her  furs.  She  could  stand  everything  but  blas- 
phemy. Besides,  she  was  trembling  with  the  sup- 
pressed indignation  of  a  woman  who  has  been 
tempted  to  make  an  advance  in  vain. 

But,  when  she  rose,  he  did  not  try  to  detain  her. 
For  he  had  already  reached  the  conclusion  he  had 
been  seeking,  and  on  account  of  which  he  had  asked 
her  to  supper. 


86  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"I,  too,"  stammered  Andreas.  "Some  one  must 
see  her  home." 

"And  I,  with  a  wretched  headache,"  added  de 
Chaumont,  trying  to  catch  Fiammetta's  eye. 

Tito  muttered  something  about  an  early  ride  with 
Sangallo. 

"Good-night,  then.  And  tell  the  waiters  not  to 
disturb  me." 

"You'll  stay  by  yourself?" 

"Isha'n'tbelonely." 

He  waved  them  out,  his  big  hands  beating  the  air 
as  if  to  disperse  them  with  the  smoke.  As  they  left, 
he  heard  Fiammetta  whisper,  with  an  accent  of  spite : 

"No  doubt  he  means  the  Devil  will  keep  him 
company.  ..." 

When  their  footsteps  had  died  away,  he  gave  vent 
to  an  exclamation  of  disgust. 

"Pouah!  To  think  I  expected  to  be  satisfied 
again " 

He  emptied  his  glass,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and 
reflected. 

For  a  week,  he  had  thought  of  nothing  but  Ghir- 
laine  Bellamy.  The  remembrance  of  her  had  filled 
his  sleep  with  dreams.  Out  of  doors,  at  twilight,  tall 
women's  shapes,  flitting  through  the  shadows,  had 
called  up  recollections  of  hers.  To-night,  while 
watching  her  in  the  Costanzi,  his  desire  for  her  had 
seemed  insupportable. 

Yet  her  antipathy  made  her  heart  as  nearly  inac- 
cessible as  if  she  lived  in  another  world.  Before  her 
nobility,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  his  self-confidence 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  87 

failed  him.  He  had  even  been  tempted  to  smother 
the  thought  of  her  in  other  experiences,  susceptible 
to  his  influence.  But,  on  approaching  this  venture, 
he  had  realized  that  nothing  else  would  do  now.  It 
was  not  perversity  that  he  wanted,  but  her  white  self, 
that  hated  him. 

"I've  never  failed  yet,  in  anything  I  set  my  hand 
to.  Something  will  happen.  Presently  I  shall  find 
the  answer.  ..." 

Thus  he  continued  to  search  his  mind,  fumy  with 
the  haphazard  ingenuities  of  intoxication. 

"It  will  come  to  me.  If  only  I  can  remember  it  in 
the  morning.  ..." 

But  in  the  morning  he  recalled  distinctly  nothing 
that  had  followed  except  a  dream,  in  which  he  had 
seemed  to  be  dragging  her  down  from  a  great  height, 
into  black  waves.  .  .  . 

Lying  abed,  he  concluded  that  he  had  reached  the 
most  intense  emotional  crisis  of  his  life.  He  was  sure 
that  his  future  was  going  to  be  profoundly  affected 
by  her.  And  he  was  convinced  that  hers  would  not 
be  unchanged.  For  he  believed  that  no  one  is  at- 
tracted to  another  so  strongly  unless  the  two  have 
something  vital  in  common.  He  felt  that  she  must 
contain,  in  the  depths  of  her  nature,  some  very  im- 
portant quality  sympathetic  to  him. 

How  to  discover  it? 

He  enjoyed  an  almost  clairvoyant  perception  of 
human  nature,  up  to  the  point  where  its  higher  life 
began.  Moreover,  those  who  held  that  the  feminine 
is  mysterious  had  earned,  hitherto,  nothing  but  his 


SS  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

amusement.  Yet  there  was  no  doubt  that  this  girl 
still  puzzled  him. 

"After  all,  every  problem  is  merely  a  question  of 
patience." 

His  intellect,  his  physical  strength — which  was  ex- 
ceptional— and  his  wealth,  had  always  been  taxed  in 
the  interests  of  perversity.  Some  men  are  fated  to 
wander  through  life  as  if  through  endless  subterra- 
nean vaults,  whose  high  windows  are  sealed  against 
the  sunshine.  Sometimes  these  sealed  casements 
never  open. 

"That  face  of  a  young  saint,  and  that  figure  of 
Diana  squeezed  into  a  costume  from  the  Place  Ven- 
dome!  Curious  mutual  concession.  ..." 

He  stopped  talking  to  himself.  His  valet  was 
standing  beside  the  bed. 

This  servant  was  small  and  wiry,  with  a  visage 
that  seemed  to  have  been  carved  out  of  wood  and 
then  covered  with  dark  wax.  He  was  usually  taken 
for  a  Turkoman  or  a  Tartar.  In  his  passports  he 
went  by  the  Greek  name,  Disnisius  Pappachzistos. 
He  spoke  several  languages,  knew  many  countries, 
and  whether  in  Paris  or  Bokhara  made  no  difficulty 
of  the  most  unusual  commissions. 

Sebastian  Maure,  ten  years  before,  in  St.  Peters- 
burg, had  dragged  him  out  of  a  wardrobe  in  the 
Hotel  d'Europe.  At  that  time,  the  fellow  had  pos- 
sibly been,  as  he  declared,  a  hotel  spy  of  the  Russian 
Secret  Service.  If  so,  he  had  thrown  over  this  berth 
to  follow  a  master  whose  prodigality  and  advent- 
urous habits  had  made  his  old  post  appear  unprofita- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  89 

ble  and  tame.  Not  long  afterward,  in  the  Caucasus, 
Sebastian  Maure  had  saved  his  life,  because  "it 
would  be  too  tiresome  to  break  in  a  new  numskull." 
From  that  day,  the  man  had  been  like  a  slave. 

Sebastian  sat  down  in  a  brocaded  arm-chair.  The 
valet,  dashing  some  toilet-water  into  a  silver  mug, 
mixed  a  lather.  Presently,  when  the  razor  was  run- 
ning over  his  throat,  Sebastian  remarked: 

"It's  some  little  time  since  you  have  been  home, 
Disnisius." 

"Many  years,  master,"  replied  the  servant,  re- 
spectfully. 

"Your  native  place  is  still  Balikisri,  in  Asia 
Minor?" 

"Why  should  I  lie  to  you,  master?  You  are  my 
father  and  mother." 

"Balikisri,  eh?  Near  Constantinople?  What  is 
there?" 

"Hills,  a  river,  houses,  dogs,  men,  and  women. 
And  much  dirt." 

"So  you  are  never  homesick?" 

"Oh,  I  shall  go  back  some  day." 

"If  it's  a  girl,  she  would  be  rather  ugly  by  this 
time." 

"It  is  not  a  girl.     Only  an  enemy,  Excellency." 

Sebastian  yawned  with  care. 

"You  leave  him  alone  so  long  he'll  forget  you." 

The  man  made  no  reply  at  once.  Finally,  poising 
the  razor: 

"He  will  hardly  forget  me,  Excellency.  Every 
month  I  send  him  a  letter,  telling  him  I  am  coming 


90  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

back  some  day.  Meanwhile,  he  is  growing  rich. 
When  he's  as  rich  as  he  can  be,  I  will  go  home." 

As  the  razor  was  passing  the  jugular  vein,  he 
added: 

"What  use,  to  have  killed  him  when  he  had  noth- 
ing? To  kill  him  when  he  has  everything  to  lose  is 
much  better." 

Sebastian  felt  his  lips  twitching. 

"You  will  make  me  laugh,  Disnisius,  and  then  you 
will  cut  me." 

"Laugh  if  you  wish  to,  master.  I  shall  not  cut 
you,"  said  Disnisius  in  a  gentle  voice. 

"A  most  satisfactory  servant,"  thought  Sebastian. 
Aloud: 

"You  may  take  the  rest  of  those  cravats  we  got  at 
Doucet's  last  Fall." 

"The  rest?" 

"The  ones  you  haven't  already  stolen." 

"Many  thanks,  master,"  murmured  Disnisius, 
shutting  the  razor.  "Shall  I  lay  out  a  braided  coat 
for  this  afternoon?" 

"I'm  going  to  call  on  a  sculptor  of  genius.  What 
regalia  does  your  varied  experience  suggest?" 

"  Ah,  then  it  would  doubtless  be  tweeds.  And  per- 
haps a  mauve  tie.  I  say  mauve,  because  there  will 
be  more  color  in  your  Excellency's  face,  when  your 
Excellency  has  had  some  Burgundy  with  his  break- 
fast. Massage?" 

"Certainly.     And  be  quick  about  it." 

But  two  o'clock  had  struck  before  he  was  ready  to 
go  out. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  91 

He  told  the  cab-driver  to  take  him  to  Mons  Tar- 
peo,  on  the  Capitol  Hill.  There,  midway  of  a  street 
pent  in  by  yellow  walls,  he  entered  a  big,  shabby 
house,  and  climbed  four  flights  of  stairs  to  Brian 
Dungannan's  [studio. 

The  large  room  was  flooded  with  sunshine  that 
streamed  through  a  skylight.  One  saw  wooden 
chairs,  a  threadbare  divan,  and  many  plaster  casts. 
A  young  man  in  a  blouse  was  at  work  on  a  life-sized 
marble  statue,  which  he  was  pretending  to  file  round 
the  ankles.  He  had  curly  red  hair,  honest  eyes,  of 
emerald-green,  slightly  inflamed  by  marble-dust,  and 
a  broken  nose  awry  amid  many  freckles.  He  was 
grumbling  in  Italian: 

"Make  them  thinner,  says  the  old  imbecile.  I 
will  not  make  them  thinner  by  so  much  as  a  milli- 
metre! But  she's  thin  herself,  says  he:  if  her  ankles 
are  not,  that's  her  fault.  Stupido!  Her  ankles  are 
much  more  beautiful  so  than  spindling.  Now  they 
speak  of  a  life  afoot.  The  spring  of  grass  under  the 
heel  from  morning  till  night.  The  rush  of  clean  air 
round  the  body.  Camilla,  if  your  ankles  got  spin- 
dling, I  should  pack  you  off  home  to  Ariccia!" 

He  nodded  severely  at  the  statue. 

It  portrayed  a  tall,  slim  maiden  halting  between 
two  steps,  head  up,  in  a  splendid  attitude  of  alarm. 
There  was  something  fay-like  about  both  face  and 
figure — the  look  of  a  wild  thing  taking  fright,  the 
pure  naturalness  of  untrammelled  muscles  contract- 
ing for  headlong  escape. 

When  this  almost  vital  creation  remained  unre- 


92  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

sponsive,  the  sculptor  recollected  himself,  looked 
over  his  shoulder,  and  repeated : 

"You  hear,  Camilla?    Home  like  a  shot!" 

And  he  laughed  at  a  handsome,  long-limbed  girl 
who  sat  in  a  corner,  demurely  knitting,  the  sun  on  her 
copper-colored  hair. 

Near  by,  smiling  also,  lounged  Ernesto  Sangallo. 

Then  they  saw  Sebastian  Maure  in  the  doorway. 

When  he  had  examined  and  praised  the  statue,  he 
scrutinized  the  original. 

He  had  heard  of  this  peasant  girl  from  the  Alban 
village  famed  for  its  pretty  women.  She  came  of  a 
family  of  artists'  models.  A  year  before,  she  had 
knocked  on  Dungannan's  door,  in  her  search  for 
work.  She  was  still  here. 

Her  face  was  grave  and  sweet,  with  the  artlessness 
of  very  simple,  almost  aboriginal  natures — some- 
thing decidedly  different  from  the  apparent  artless- 
ness  of  the  usual  Italian  peasant. 

Dungannan  remarked,  in  English: 

"Now  you  see  what  I've  tried  to  reproduce.  Here 
and  there,  in  this  country,  you'll  find  an  individual 
that  all  the  slave-hordes  of  ancient  Rome,  all  the 
rabble  of  barbarian  conquerors,  hasn't  adulterated. 
This  one  is  the  double  of  her  first  native  ancestress, 
who  prostrated  herself,  in  the  fields,  before  some 
unusual-looking  stone,  that  represented  her  idea  of 
divinity.  She  belongs  to  the  age  of  centaurs,  and 
fauns,  and  satyrs.  She's  one  of  the  rarest,  most 
precious  things  in  the  world — and  I  love  her  for  it! 
Some  day,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  marry  her, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  93 

more's  the  pity!  Like  plucking  a  dryad  out  of  her 
nest,  and  haling  her  up  to  strange  altars!  It  seems 
much  more  appropriate  that  we  should  just  go  away, 
hand  in  hand,  into  the  woods  forever."  He  turned 
again  to  Sebastian.  "Have  you  ever  thought  of 
going  away  with  some  one  into  the  woods  forever? 
Most  people  would  consider  that  sad.  They're 
wrong.  Everything  is  there.  The  nearer  we  ap- 
proach the  primitive,  the  plainer  we  see." 

Sebastian  contemplated  them  both,  clear-eyed  and 
frank  in  the  sunshine,  radiant  with  an  inexplicable 
serenity.  And  suddenly  he  felt  jealous.  For  this 
was  a  new  sort  of  lawlessness,  so  innocent  that  none 
could  reproach  them  for  it,  that  few  could  help 
envying  them.  They  seemed  to  belong  to  the  youth 
of  the  world,  to  a  time  when  there  was  no  right  or 
wrong. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "you  two,  if  any,  ought  to  find 
your  old  gods  in  the  forest.  Though  even  the  most 
liberal  theologians  have  pronounced  them  all  dead." 

:" Are  the  old  gods  dead?' "  quoted  Brian  Dungan- 
nan.  "'Not  they;  but  maybe  they  think  we  are!" 

"He's  a  pagan,"  declared  Sangallo,  regarding  the 
sculptor  affectionately. 

"I've  been  called  that,  too,"  Sebastian  Maure  re- 
plied, somewhat  grimly.  "In  my  case  the  term  is 
abusive." 

"Every  man  has  his  own  interpretation  of  words. 
That  depends  on  how  far  his  search  has  progressed." 

"Search  for  what?"  asked  Sebastian,  who  felt  in 
the  mood  for  hostilities. 


94  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"For  what  we're  all  hunting,  some  with  open  eyes, 
some  blindly.  Old  John  Elzevir,  out  toward  Tivoli, 
is  searching  among  his  bees  and  his  flowers.  The 
poor  wretch  in  the  Trastevere  quarter,  who'll  do  a 
murder  to-night,  is  searching  no  less,  though  he 
doesn't  know  it." 

"One  moment 

But  Sangallo,  smiling,  avoided  that  encounter. 

"My  dear  friend,  you  and  I  would  never  get  any- 
where with  that  argument!"  As  if  to  change  the 
conversation  still  more,  he  returned  to  Italian: 

"You're  coming  out  to  the  Meeting  to-morrow,  at 
Nero's  Tomb?" 

"Perhaps.     Who  generally  shows  up?" 

"The  old  set,  and  a  few  new  amazons.  Madame 
Semadeni  invariably.  Lady  Glastenwold  usu- 
ally- 

Camilla  looked  up  from  her  knitting.  In  a  rich, 
contralto  voice: 

"That's  the  English  Princess  who  came  to  drink 
tea  and  was  nice  to  me.  She  is  simpatica" 

"The  Glastenwolds,"  Dungannan  explained,  "have 
a  place  that  marches  with  father's,  in  County  Clare. 
A  fine  woman.  The  open-air  sort." 

"Her  brother,"  remarked  Sangallo,  "is  a  first-rate 
fellow.  Vincent  Pamf or t.  You  know  him,  Maure?  " 

"I  think  not." 

"He  showed  us  some  wonderful  jumping  last 
month.  But  then,  being  English,  no  doubt  he  felt 
that  a  little  more  than  the  usual  was  expected.  We 
miss  him." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  95 

Camilla,  resting  her  work  on  her  lap,  asked  Dun- 
gannan: 

"Bree-an,  will  the  Signorina  Bellamy  go  to  Inghil- 
terra-to  marry  him?" 

Sebastian  felt  sure  he  could  not  have  heard  aright. 
But  Dungannan,  with  a  laugh  of  vexation,  reproached 
her: 

"Foolish  child!  When  the  English  lady  told  me 
that,  it  was  meant  to  be  a  great  secret." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  startled  eyes. 

"Then  I  have  done  wrong  again!  ..." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Sebastian's  head.  He  tried 
to  control  his  features.  But  Sangallo  was  staring. 
He  heard  himself  say,  in  an  unnatural  voice: 

"That's  news.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  let  it  go  any  farther." 

"I?     Certainly  not." 

"You,  too,  Ernesto." 

"I'd  already  surmised — that  much,"  Sangallo  re- 
plied, his  gaze  still  fixed  on  Sebastian's  face. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NEXT  morning,  soon  after  nine  o'clock,  many 
smart  vehicles  took  the  Nomentana  Road,  for  the 
rendezvous  of  the  Roman  Hunt. 

The  carriages  had  the  start — broughams,  traps  of 
young  officers  drawn  by  scampering  cobs,  a  coach 
or  two,  horse-cabs,  and  even  basket-carts.  But  all 
these  were  soon  overtaken  by  the  motor-cars,  flash- 
ing, in  the  clear  sunshine,  through  amber  dust,  amid 
which  appeared  top-hats  and  ladies'  derbies,  coats  of 
fur  and  "pink,"  the  blue  and  gray  mantles  of  the 
cavalry. 

The  northern  suburbs  shaken  off,  one  saw  on 
either  hand  brown  undulations,  spreading  afar  to- 
ward a  misty  frame  of  hills.  The  distant  summits 
lifted  their  snows  against  a  cloudless  sky.  It  was  a 
winter  day  without  a  flaw — of  azure  melting  into  the 
purple  of  mountain  ranges,  of  gold  dissolving  into 
the  russet  of  sun-dried  grass. 

The  procession  streamed  under  the  arches  of  an 
ancient  bridge:  below,  the  Anio  twisted,  silvery  and 
thin,  amid  its  willows.  Farther  on,  the  land  was 
almost  empty,  even  of  farms  and  herdsmen's  shel- 
ters. On  every  side  lay  the  billowy  desolation  that 
envelops  Rome,  in  the  vast  hummocks  of  which  one 
seems  to  see  the  burial-ground  of  long-dead,  gigantic 
splendors,  whose  monuments  are  all  effaced. 

96 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  97 

To  the  left,  a  narrow  road  branched  off.  All  ve- 
hicles turned  into  it.  Presently,  a  farm  appeared — 
rough  walls  among  scrubby  trees,  dirty  children  at 
gaze,  earth-colored  peasants  standing  motionless  in 
distrustful  attitudes. 

Every  one  alighted  here,  climbed  a  knoll,  and 
looked  down  on  the  place  of  rendezvous. 

A  hillside  descended  to  a  great  hollow  in  the  plain. 
Near  by,  a  few  fragments  of  brick  and  marble,  grass- 
grown,  sulking  into  the  ground,  marked  the  spot  of 
Nero's  death.  Farther  down,  a  refreshment  tent 
had  been  pitched.  Already,  white-aproned  waiters 
were  setting  the  long  table  and  drawing  corks.  Be- 
yond, grooms  and  orderlies  were  leading  about  their 
masters'  hunters.  The  huntsman,  his  horn  between 
the  buttons  of  his  red  coat,  sat  his  horse  amid  the 
pack. 

Ghirlaine  and  Lady  Glastenwold  found  their  hunt- 
ers waiting  for  them  in  the  hollow. 

Not  far  off,  Don  Livio,  in  his  black  plush  cap  of 
Master,  was  questioning  two  fattori,  or  farm-man- 
agers. These  men  were  mounted  on  shaggy  ponies, 
and  dressed,  for  this  occasion,  in  blue  coats,  with  sil- 
ver buttons  which  bore  the  crests  of  the  noble  houses 
that  they  served.  They  pointed  from  time  to  time 
across  the  tawny  undulations  toward  the  east. 

Tito  was  dodging  among  the  pale  capes  of  his 
brother  officers.  He  made  toward  Princess  Betty, 
whose  long  coat  of  leopard-skin  could  be  seen  behind 
a  hedge  of  scarlet  backs.  But  her  velvet  hat  pro- 
claimed that  she  had  come  out  merely  to  watch  the 


98  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

start.  Everywhere,  in  fact,  such  millinery  mingled 
with  the  sedate  head-gear  of  ladies  who  were  going  to 
ride.  The  spectators  were  more  numerous  than  the 
field. 

Some  young  men,  in  tweeds,  gaiters,  and  caps, 
sauntered  round  with  complacent  expressions,  con- 
vinced that  they  looked  quite  English.  By  the 
tent,  Don  Leone  was  drinking  a  whiskey-and-soda. 
Though  hunting  was  too  great  a  tax  on  his  strength, 
he  had  donned  a  suit  of  homespun,  covered  with 
tiny  knots  of  blue,  crimson,  and  orange  wool. 

Several  ladies  were  petting  the  hounds,  a  fine  pack, 
of  thirty  couple.  Little  Donna  Isotta  approached 
them,  urged  by  her  governess,  and  followed  by  a  big 
man-servant,  the  collar  and  cuffs  of  his  livery  em- 
broidered with  the  Campobasso  insignia.  But  the 
child  soon  tired  of  all  those  wagging  tails.  With 
precocious  composure,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  Miss 
Bellamy. 

Ghirlaine  threw  her  a  kiss,  then  saw  Mme.  Se- 
madeni.  The  Russian  appeared  more  serpentine 
than  ever  hi  her  black  habit.  She  was  lighting  a 
cigarette  from  de  Chaumont's  tinder-box. 

But  Ghirlaine's  view  of  them  was  cut  off  by  Donna 
Letizia  and  Ernesto  Sangallo.  As  these  approached, 
she  heard  the  words: 

"  We  must  get  up  a  fair  at  the  Grand.  A  calendar- 
sale?  A  cinematograph  show?  If  we  set  out  to  take 
tuberculous  babies,  and  they  send  them  on  from 
elsewhere,  all  the  better.  It's  only  a  question  of 
money.  ..." 


THE  ISL&  OF  LIFE  99 

They  saw  Ghirlaine,  and  came  forward  smiling. 

"You  two!  Do  you  never  meet  without  planning 
good  works?  You  must  let  me  in  on  this." 

"On  what?"  asked  Lady  Glastenwold,  riding  up,  a 
flat  little  derby  crammed  down  over  her  eyes. 

"We  were  talking  charity." 

"Not  in  favor  of  the  fox,  I  hope?" 

"As  if  he  needed  it!"  cried  Andreas  Romanovitch, 
appearing  from  nowhere,  with  a  flourish  of  his  top- 
hat.  "These  days,  the  only  thing  we  seem  likely  to 
accomplish  is  to  make  him  die  from  laughing  at  us." 

"Every  year,"  Sangallo  remarked,  "the  rascals 
move  out  farther  from  the  city." 

"And  consequently  force  us  to  get  up  always  a 
little  earlier  in  the  morning.  Parbleu,  when  one 
thinks  of  it,  they  have  a  cheek!  To-day,  for  in- 
stance, they've  cost  me  my  beauty  sleep." 

"Your  what?"  inquired  de  Chaumont,  joining  the 
circle  with  Mme.  Semadeni. 

Andreas,  turning  to  his  countrywoman,  protested: 

"Am  I  not  considered  dangerously  good-looking 
according  to  Russian  standards?" 

"Perhaps,"  de  Chaumont  suggested,  in  flute-like 
tones,  "that's  why  one  finds  so  many  Russian  ladies 
travelling?" 

"But  certainly.  For  they  began  to  do  so  in  ear- 
nest— I  refer  you  to  the  Bureau  of  Passports — only 
after  I  set  out  myself.  But  I  shall  never  marry,"  he 
added,  shooting  a  melancholy  glance  at  Ghirlaine. 
"I  mean  to  say,  not  immoderately." 

"I  should  think,"  suggested  Sangallo,  "that  mat- 


ioo  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

rimony,  in  moderation,  might  even  improve  you.  If 
the  lily  can  really  be  painted." 

Mme.  Semadeni  said: 

"The  daughter  of  the  Brazilian  Minister  is  staring 
at  you  now,  with  her  soul  in  her  eyes.  She'd  look 
very  well  at  court  in  the  sarafane  and  the  kokochnik." 

"Dear  lady,  I  naturally  don't  want  my  wife  to  be 
as  intelligent  as  I;  but  I  should  require  at  least  a  few 
glimmerings.  That  sweet-faced  girl  shows  up  at  all 
these  festivities  on  a  kicking  horse." 

"Disgusting!"  exclaimed  Lady  Glastenwold,  glar- 
ing round.  "All  the  same,  I  see  some  one  whose 
wretched  brains  might  be  kicked  out  very  ad- 
vantageously." 

By  the  tent,  in  a  crowd  of  uniforms,  Sebastian 
Maure  was  standing. 

His  burly  shoulders  stretched  the  scarlet  cloth 
of  his  coat.  His  long  legs  swelled  out  beneath  the 
white  folds  of  his  riding-breeches.  He  took  a  cig- 
arette from  his  lips,  thrust  up  his  heavy  chin,  and 
expelled  a  deep  laugh,  that  was  echoed  by  half  a 
dozen  voices. 

Ghirlaine  averted  her  eyes — to  find  Sangallo  look- 
ing at  her  intently. 

Sebastian  Maure  watched  the  novelist  put  her  on 
her  horse.  Her  black  hat  and  dress  made  her  hair 
appear  a  paler  gold,  her  skin  a  rarer  pink  and  white, 
than  usual.  Indeed,  the  texture  of  her  face  seemed, 
in  this  brilliant  sunshine,  to  have  become  translu- 
cent. And  the  long  contours  of  her  figure,  sharply 
defined  by  the  habit  and  her  present  attitude,  re- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  101 

vealed  at  once  a  pure  simplicity  and  a  subtle  richness. 

He  thought  of  Galatea,  not  yet  transformed  from 
marble  to  flesh,  but  too  disturbing  not  to  contain  the 
possibilities  of  an  all-human  wakening.  Again  he 
seemed  to  discern,  beneath  that  coldly  beautiful  ex- 
terior, a  secret  creature,  capable  of  flaming  divinely 
into  passion,  some  day,  for  some  one. 

For  whom?  For  the  man  she  had  promised  to 
marry? 

He  suppressed  an  almost  homicidal  smile. 

The  pack,  driven  in  by  huntsman  and  whip,  was 
approaching  through  the  crowd.  Prince  Campobasso 
followed,  with  the  nucleus  of  his  field.  The  officers 
round  the  tent  shed  their  cloaks  and  scattered  toward 
their  horses.  Everywhere,  above  moving  heads,  men 
and  women  were  rising  into  the  saddle. 

As  the  cavalcade  set  off  behind  the  hounds,  Sebas- 
tian found  himself  with  Andreas  Romanovitch.  The 
sun  was  in  their  faces. 

"I  know  a  Russian  who  looks  seedy  this  morning." 

"The  truth  is,  Sebastian  of  my  heart,  that  I  am 
frightened  stiff.  Some  day  I  shall  break  my  neck 
at  these  idiotic  antics.  Last  night  I  had  thirteen 
drinks.  This  morning,  there  was  a  black  cat  in  the 
vestibule.  When  I  left  the  house,  a  hunchbacked 
woman  ran  into  me.  Yes :  I  think  it  will  be  to-day. 
A  pity!  I  had  a  most  interesting  engagement  for 
to-morrow.  But  as  all  the  papers  will  mention 
it,  she'd  hardly  show  up.  Unless  she  believes  in 
spiritism.  Even  so " 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  hunt  for?" 


102  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Lots  of  men  kill  themselves  at  the  altar  of  public 
opinion.  At  any  rate,  this  will  be  as  chic  a  death  as 
any.  And  in  a  sufficiently  handsome  setting !  Look 
at  that  landscape.  Even  you  ought  to  see  the  ar- 
tistry of  Providence  in  it." 

The  other  replied,  indifferently: 

"'How  beautiful  it  would  be  if  Corot  had  painted 
it.'" 

"Corot!" 

"  Certainly.  He,  at  least,  would  have  known  what 
to  suppress." 

"Poseur!" 

Sebastian  yawned,  and  they  rode  on  in  silence. 

At  last,  Andreas,  peering  ahead  into  the  thick  of 
the  crowd,  inquired: 

"  Can  you  see  who's  going  to  pilot  Miss  Bellamy?" 

"Tito,  I  should  judge." 

"He'll  lead  her  up  to  all  the  stiff  fences.  So 
precious  a  creature  ought  to  ride  with  some  one  who 
knows  what  fear  is  like.  Will  you  come  along?" 

"Thanks.     I'll  play  my  own  game,  I  think." 

Andreas,  humping  his  shoulders,  trotted  forward. 

The  pack  moved  on  eastward.  The  field  followed 
quietly  behind  the  Master,  alert,  reins  well  in  hand. 
For  in  the  Campagna  the  foxes  were  not  found  in 
coverts,  but  in  the  open. 

Suddenly,  a  stir  went  through  the  field.  Ahead, 
the  hounds  were  speeding  away  in  full  cry.  The 
pink  coats  of  huntsman  and  whip  flew  after  them. 
To  a  thud  of  hoof-beats,  the  field  set  off. 

Andreas  gained  Ghirlaine's  side  as  the  rush  began. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  103 

With  a  tragic  grimace,  he  clutched  his  hat  and 
plunged  forward  at  her  elbow.  But  Tito,  on  her 
other  hand,  soon  called  to  her: 

"  Pull  out !    He  won't  hold  up- wind  for  long." 

"Don  Livio  doesn't  cut." 

"He  means  to  go  round  that  plateau.  If  we  top 
it,  we'll  show  the  whole  crowd  our  backs." 

"But  what's  beyond?"  shouted  Andreas. 

"Leave  that  to  me,  old  Cossack!  I  know  this 
place  like  my  hand." 

The  three  swerved  northward.  A  few  moments 
later,  the  pack  was  streaming  parallel  to  their  course. 
The  whole  field  was  turning. 

"What  did  I  tell  you!"  cried  Tito. 

Already  the  riders  had  scattered.  Red  coats,  black 
habits,  uniforms,  skimmed  into  sight  here  and  there 
on  high  ground,  next  instant  to  disappear  into  hol- 
lows. The  rush  of  air,  the  dull  rataplan  of  hoofs,  the 
faint  clamor  of  hounds,  filled  Ghirlaine  with  reckless- 
ness. Her  habitual  self  was  being  swept  back,  by 
the  singing  air,  toward  the  regions  of  every-day.  But 
she  urged  her  horse  to  bear  her  on  ever  faster.  Her 
instinct  seemed  to  recognize,  in  these  savage  emo- 
tions, not  retrogression,  but  progress!  There  before 
her,  in  the  midst  of  desolate,  dangerous  vistas,  she 
glimpsed,  as  it  were,  for  one  moment,  the  riddle  of 
happiness.  .  .  . 

They  went  down  a  long  stretch  of  hillside.  The 
plateau  rose  before  them.  Their  hunters  attacked 
the  slope.  The  rest  of  the  field,  however,  was  scurry- 
ing eastward  again.  Andreas  warned  Tito  that  they 
were  losing  the  others. 


104  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Let  them  go.  They're  afraid  of  this  hill,  that's 
all." 

The  three  reached  the  summit  in  a  scrambling 
rush — and  desperately  drew  rein. 

They  were  on  the  brink  of  an  almost  perpendicular 
bluff.  Loose  earth,  streaked  with  stony  waterways, 
ran  down  thirty  feet  to  the  plain.  Marchese  Tito, 
leaning  over  his  horse's  neck,  examined  this  precipice 
with  a  fallen  jaw. 

"Capers!  I  must  have  been  thinking  of  the  land 
round  Divino  Amore!" 

Andreas,  gazing  eastward  at  the  fast-disappearing 
field,  stuck  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

"Hair-brained  Sicilian!  When  you  become  Mas- 
ter, the  Hunt  will  need  parachutes." 

Tito  flushed  violently  beneath  his  swarthy  skin. 
In  a  voice  hoarse  with  suppressed  anger,  he  retorted : 

"Whatever  you  wish,  of  course!  All  the  same,  if 
we  three  were  all  men " 

Ghirlaine  nearly  laughed  outright. 

"Well,  Marchese?" 

His  eyes  gleamed  with  foolhardy  determination  to 
wipe  out  his  disgrace. 

"Then  I  should  have  said,  'What  odds?  FoUow 
me!'" 

And  he  jerked  his  horse's  head  round  toward  the 
precipice. 

She  stifled  a  cry  of  alarm.  Andreas  spurred  for- 
ward. But  it  was  too  late  to  stop  Tito.  Lying  back 
almost  flat  against  his  hunter's  rump,  he  went  over 
the  edge. 

The  two  spectators  held  their  breath.    The  horse's 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  105 

forelegs,  stiffly  braced,  seemed  every  instant  about 
to  be  overbalanced.  But  the  dexterous  beast,  neck 
arched,  haunches  trembling,  his  dainty  hoofs  slipping 
midst  rivulets  of  gravel,  had  almost  reached  the  bot- 
tom before  he  lost  footing. 

There  was  a  crash,  a  confusion  of  man  and  horse, 
a  cloud  of  dust.  -At  the  foot  of  the  precipice,  the 
hunter  rolled  over  and  scrambled  upright.  Tito  sat 
on  the  ground,  with  a  pale,  foolish  face,  one  hand 
pressed  against  his  side.  After  carefully  poking  at 
his  tunic,  he  vouchsafed,  indignantly: 

"How  absurdly  fragile  are  ribs!" 

The  others  rode  rapidly  along  the  plateau  to  its 
end,  descended  in  safety,  and  galloped  back.  The 
soldier  received  them  grinning.  His  anger  had 
vanished. 

"Andreas,  you're  going  to  miss  the  rest  of  your 
hunting." 

"I,  too,"  said  Ghirlaine,  and  prepared  to  dismount. 

"You,  Miss  Bellamy?  No,  indeed!  You  must 
ride  on  at  once.  The  runs  are  never  long.  You 
can  easily  catch  the  rest." 

"Marchese,  you  ask  me  to  leave  you  here?" 

"Why  not,  per  Bacco?  I'm  always  breaking  my 
bones.  I  know  just  what  to  do.  We  shall  ride  at  a 
walk  to  the  tent,  Andreas  and  I,  motor  home,  and 
send  for  the  vet.  He'll  come  and  tell  me  his  favorite 
story,  in  hopes  that  I  laugh  and  hurt  myself.  Don't 
be  alarmed:  I've  never  laughed  at  it  yet." 

He  added,  in  a  different  voice: 

"Besides,  if  you  were  so  good  as  to  go  back  with 


io6  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

us,  they'd  mention  that,  too,  in  the  Italic  to-morrow. 
Am  I  right,  Andreas?" 

"Absolutely.  And  after  the  Italie,  the  five- 
o'clocks.  ..." 

She  remembered  she  was  in  Rome.  People  would 
ask  one  another,  with  relish:  "How  did  she  get  so 
far  afield?  Did  she  arrive  with  help,  or  go  to  fetch  it? 
Which  tete-a-tete  did  the  accident  interrupt?"  By 
to-morrow  night,  a  good  many  persons,  who  could 
not  understand  American  girls  at  all,  would  have 
made  the  adventure  more  than  romantic. 

Still,  she  would  probably  have  remained  anyway — 
but  she  thought  of  Vincent.  She  knew  perfectly  the 
thinness  of  the  ice  which,  in  Latin  society,  an  unmar- 
ried American  girl  had  to  cross  to  escape,  at  her 
betrothal,  reminiscent  gossip  highly  distasteful  not 
only  to  her,  but  as  well  to  her  fiance. 

It  was  this  that  persuaded  her  to  ride  on  alone. 

But  she  had  not  gone  a  mile  when  something  told 
her  she  might  have  done  better  to  stay.  She  turned 
to  look  back. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bluff,  horses  and  men  appeared 
very  small  already.  She  made  out  Tito's  tunic.  He 
seemed  to  have  mounted.  Then  the  pink  of  Andreas' 
coat  divided!  One  part  remained  still.  The  other 
crept  out  across  the  plain. 

A  moment  ago,  three  men  had  been  there  to- 
gether. Now  one  was  following  her.  And  she  knew 
who  this  one  must  be.  ... 

Her  hunter  bounded  northward.     It  was  a  flight. 

From  one  summit,  she  saw,  far  ahead,  scattered 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  107 

points  of  scarlet  and  black.  The  nearer  distance  was 
covered  with  a  net-work  of  fences.  Abruptly,  close 
at  hand,  on  low  ground,  a  hut  appeared,  ringed  round 
by  trees. 

The  hunt  was  still  coursing  away  in  the  depths  of  a 
country  cut  up  by  obstacles.  She  could  not  hope  to 
overtake  it  before  being  caught.  But  now,  for  the 
moment,  the  hillocks  hid  her  pursuer  from  view.  If 
she  reached  this  hut  unseen,  before  he  emerged,  per- 
haps he  would  pass  straight  on? 

He  had  not  come  in  sight  again  when  she  gained 
that  shelter,  rode  round  to  the  back,  and  slid  from 
her  saddle.  But  this  was  no  sooner  done  than 
regretted. 

She  had  obeyed  the  sort  of  impulse  which  drives 
one  straight  into  the  very  dilemma  one  wants  to 
avoid.  Too  late  she  knew  that  he  would  divine  her 
trick — how  transparent,  now,  how  puerile,  how  un- 
worthy of  her  pride !  He  would  find  her  here.  They 
would  be  alone  in  this  waste. 

Soon  she  heard  hoof-beats  approaching. 

And,  in  order  that  her  humiliation  might  not  be 
complete,  she  pulled  herself  together,  raised  her  chin, 
and  walked  out  into  the  open. 

He  rode  up,  dismounted,  and  stood  before  her. 

On  all  sides,  for  miles,  extended  that  solitude,  to 
dissolve  at  last,  far  off,  in  a  mellow  mist  above  which 
floated  the  white  and  violet-colored  surfaces  of  the 
hills.  The  air  was  not  stirred  by  any  breeze.  No 
sound  came  to  them. 

At  last,  he  said: 


io8  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"It  was  imprudent  of  you  to  run  off  like  that.  In 
these  parts  a  lady  never  wanders  about  alone." 

If  this  was  duplicity,  pride  forced  her  to  cap  it 
with  the  falsehood: 

"My  horse  picked  up  a  stone.  I  expected  to  find 
some  one  here,  to  help  me  mount  again." 

"All  the  worse.  A  few  of  these  peasants  turn  into 
extraordinary  rascals  without  any  notice." 

"That  never  occurred  to  me.  It  was  rather  fool- 
ish, wasn't  it?  Especially  as  I  don't  speak  Italian." 

"You  don't  speak  Italian?" 

He  regarded  her  thoughtfully.  Then  a  look  of 
amusement  crossed  his  face.  He  demanded: 

"Why  are  you  always  running  away  from  me?" 

"I?    How  absurd!    Why  should  I? " 

"Maybe  some  one's  told  you  that  I'm  a  sort  of 
ogre.  Yet  you  see  I  haven't  tucked  my  napkin  under 
my  chin.  I  presume  that  ogres  tuck  napkins  under 
their  chins,  before  beginning  their  hideous  repasts? 
I  have  a  dim  recollection  of  their  doing  it,  in  fairy- 
tales. It  surprises  you  that  I  was  once  a  small  boy  ? 
I  admit  the  absurdity  of  the  thought.  There  were 
even  people  who  patted  me  on  the  head!  Though 
you'll  hardly  believe  they  did  that  twice.  Your  in- 
tuition tells  you  they  must  have  discovered  my 
horns." 

"Now  I  know  you're  not  in  earnest." 

"I'm  perfectly  in  earnest.  You  dislike  me  so 
much  that  you  can't  bear  the  sight  of  me.  Is  it  be- 
cause I've  let  you  see  that  you  attract  me  tre- 
mendously?" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  109 

"If  you  please!"  she%said,  quickly. 

"  You're  wrong  to  take  offence  at  that.  You  might 
as  well  blame  me  for  being  fascinated  by  the  Vatican 
Venus.  Or  Watteau's  'Embarkment  for  Cythera.* 
Or  the  Shrine  in  Or  San  Michele.  Or  any  other  beau- 
tifully perfected  thing.  You  shouldn't  forbid  me  the 
happiness  of  admiring  you  any  more  than  the  Louvre 
ought  to  lock  up  its  treasures  when  I  come  in  sight. 
In  your  case,  even  less  excuse.  For  one  sometimes 
steals  a  Mona  Lisa.  But  one  doesn't  get  away  so 
easily  with  a  live  young  woman  who  has  so  strong 
an  opinion  of  her  own  about  it." 

This  unexpected  tone  made  her  recent  thoughts 
seem  almost  hysterical.  She  was  able  to  retort,  with 
a  fair  imitation  of  his  own  manner: 

"A  very  good  thing,  apparently,  that  I  seem  to 
show  a — lack  of  sympathy." 

"No  doubt.  Why  not  be  frank  about  it?  With 
the  slightest  encouragement,  I  might  act  in  a  per- 
fectly outrageous  manner." 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  an  intense,  yet  sur- 
reptitious, keenness.  Abruptly,  straightening  her- 
self, she  said: 

"Mr.  Maure,  need  I  tell  you  that  I'm  not  accus- 
tomed to  this  sort  of  thing?" 

"In  the  world  we  know  best,  one  seldom  en- 
counters natural  conduct.  For  instance,  if  I  wish 
to  express  any  inclination  toward  an  unmarried  girl, 
I  have  to  begin  by  pretending  that  neither  of  us  are 
human  beings.  But  here,  in  the  very  heart  of  nat- 
ure, one  feels  a  certain  impulse  to  be  normal.  .  .  .J> 


no  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"May  I  ask  you  to  put  me  on  my  horse?" 

He  became  serious. 

"Too  bad!  We  might  almost  have  understood 
each  other  to-day." 

"I  really  don't  see  the  necessity." 

"The  necessity  remains,  all  the  same.  And  who 
knows  when  we  should  find  another  such  chance?" 

She  stared  at  him  blankly.  But,  with  a  sudden 
gentleness  that  she  had  not  thought  him  capable  of, 
he  explained: 

"I  mean,  I  want  so  much  to  alter  your  opinion  of 
me." 

He  pointed  to  a  rough  bench,  against  the  hut,  by 
the  open  door. 

"  Come,  sit  down  for  a  minute  or  two.  It  will  do 
no  harm  for  you  to  think  of  me  a  little  more  gen- 
erously." 

She  felt  that  he  had  made  open  antagonism  impos- 
sible for  the  moment.  She  did  not  believe  that  this 
new  tone  was  sincere.  Yet  in  decency  she  could 
hardly  avoid  responding  to  it.  But  she  still  tem- 
porized : 

"It's  all  so  superfluous!" 

"Kindness  will  never  seem  amiss  in  you." 

She  sat  down  on  one  end  of  the  bench.  He  seated 
himself  on  the  other.  Leaning  back,  and  crossing  his 
hands  on  his  knee,  he  gazed  out  across  the  plain. 

"It  was  in  France,  at  the  Montlherys'  garden- 
party,  that  I  met  you.  Immediately,  you  disliked 
me.  I'm  used  to  that.  But  in  your  case,  I  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  indifference.  .  .  . 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  in 

"I  presume  your  first  impression  of  me  was  af- 
fected by  several  things.  To  pass  over  my  looks 
as  charitably  as  possible,  my  reputation  was  hard 
against  me,  from  your  point  of  view.  I  might  say 
one  ought  not  to  believe  quite  everything  one  hears. 
You'd  probably  reply  that  even  gossip  has  more  or 
less  foundation.  Besides,  there  are  those  books  of 
mine.  You've  never  read  them,  of  course!  But 
you've  heard  about  them? 

"Yes,  I  can  understand  how  repugnant  to  you  I 
must  have  been,  that  day.  You're  not  like  the  gen- 
eral run.  If  I'm  called  one  thing  more  than  another, 
it's  that  I  am  'perversely  wicked.'  That,  in  itself, 
would  be  quite  enough  for  you. 

"But  let's  run  over  some  of  the  popular  charges 
against  me,  viewed  from  that  stand-point.  .  .  . 

"Not  to  bore  you,  there's  the  subject  of  religion. 
Usually,  they  harp  on  that.  I  don't  see  why.  Now- 
adays, what  men  do  you  find,  in  good  society,  except 
the  'Blacks'  in  Rome  and  some  of  the  English,  who 
make  any  pretence  at  being  Christians? 

"What's  to  blame?  One's  early  training?  To  be 
sure,  at  Lausanne,  and  Bonn,  and  Gottingen,  I  got 
a  rather  heavy  dose  of  physics,  biology,  chemistry, 
higher  mathematics,  and  so  on.  Religious  faith  is 
often  difficult  after  scientific  instruction.  It  isn't 
perversity  that  makes  honest  non-believers,  but  ed- 
ucation. 

"Still,  as  soon  as  I  began  to  consider  such  matters, 
I  felt  as  I  do  to-day.  When  I  was  young,  good  people 
tried  to  show  me  the  evil  of  my  ways.  It  seemed  to 


112  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

me  that  their  arguments  soon  left  the  boundaries  of 
logic.  Or  rather,  that  they  soon  ceased  to  argue  at 
all,  and  fell  back  on  simple  assertion.  Their  final 
word  always  was,  'Such  things  are  not  proved,  but 
felt.'  I've  never  felt  them:  so  I've  never  believed. 

"I  think  that  in  a  few  years  I  shall  be  like  the 
brown  grass  of  this  Campagna.  Yesterday  it  was 
alive.  To-day  it's  dead.  No  one  pretends  that  a 
new  spring  is  going  to  revive  these  blades.  We  know 
they'll  live  again  merely  through  their  descendants. 
Of  all  that  dwells  on  earth,  only  mankind  does  man, 
in  his  vanity,  flatter  with  promises  of  another  life. 

"So  I  believe  that  with  death  there'll  be  an  end  of 
me.  Meanwhile,  however,  I  shall  have  lived.  And 
here  we  are  at  the  point  of  personal  conduct.  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  remember  what  Emerson  said  about  that? 
*  What  have  I  to  do  with  the  sacredness  of  traditions, 
if  I  live  from  within?  No  law  can  be  sacred  to  me 
but  that  of  my  nature.'  And  he  was  right.  To  be 
an  individual,  one  must  live  his  own  life. 

"We  don't  all  find  our  best  satisfaction  in  the  same 
way.  Certain  types  get  their  greatest  happiness  in 
being  ascetic.  But  those  shouldn't  expect  all  the 
rest  of  humanity  to  follow  their  lead.  There  are 
natures  and  natures.  Saint  Teresa  would  be  wretched 
in  Messalina's  palace.  Messalina  would  be  no  less 
miserable  in  a  convent-cell. 

"I  confess  I'm  one  of  those  who'd  find  only  misery 
in  asceticism.  Or  in  slavery  to  an  uncongenial  pub- 
lic opinion. 

"Do  you  realize  that  nothing  enrages  the  world  so 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  113 

much  as  a  man  who  worries  along  without  its  ap- 
proval? What  haven't  they  said  about  me — those 
good  folks! 

"One  thing,  they  adore  repeating  that  I  drink  too 
much.  I  drink  a  good  deal,  to  be  sure.  But  too 
much?  A  man  only  drinks  too  much  if  he  drinks 
when  he  doesn't  want  to.  I  seldom  do  anything  I 
don't  want  to. 

"  Then,  too,  they  call  me  a  shocking  fellow  in  other 
ways.  Here  again  my  ideas  are  going  to  offend  you. 
All  the  same,  I  hold  them  to  be  the  truth.  The  truth 
that  society  still  denies,  with  a  sort  of  pathetic  des- 
peration, in  the  face  of  continual  proof.  To  be  sat- 
isfied with  one  for  life  is  another  ideal  I  can't  believe 
in.  .  .  ." 

Ghirlaine's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  his  sombre  face, 
intently,  almost  wonderingly.  He  fascinated  her,  as 
something  abnormal  fascinates — this  man  whose 
words  blighted  everything  they  touched.  Immaculate 
in  his  "pink"  and  doeskin  and  glistening  leather  and 
white  linen,  he  seemed  to  her  the  epitome  of  moral 
corruption.  In  the  clear  sunlight,  all  the  deteriora- 
tion of  his  features  was  emphasized.  Only,  for  some 
strange  reason,  his  hands  seemed  the  hands  of  an- 
other person :  large  but  exceedingly  shapely,  muscular 
but  informed  with  a  curious,  almost  insidious  deli- 
cacy. It  was  when  she  looked  at  his  hands  that  her 
heart  beat  faster,  that  she  was  afraid  again — though 
of  what  she  did  not  know.  .  .  . 

He  was  saying,  with  a  half -humorous  intonation: 

"  After  all,  where  do  I  differ  from  half  the  men  one 


114  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

meets?  Their  opinions  are  much  like  mine.  They 
keep  them  better  hidden,  that's  all — or  practise  them 
less  frankly.  So  they  escape  the  abuse  I  receive. 
To  be  sure,  condemnation  will  never  mean  anything 
to  me.  Unless  you  continue  to  share  it." 

He  turned  to  her,  and  leaned  forward.  His  face 
was  changed.  In  it  she  saw,  as  it  were,  a  hint  of  the 
charm  of  youth.  It  was  as  if  the  ghostly  counte- 
nance of  an  ardent  boy  were  showing,  just  for  the 
moment,  through  that  mask.  In  a  lower  voice  he 
went  on: 

"I  want  you  to  put  aside  what  others  say,  and 
judge  me  for  yourself.  You'll  find  that  I'm  merely  a 
man  like  the  rest,  rather  less  hypocritical,  or  deluded, 
than  most,  but  capable  of  a  certain  kind  of  idealism. 
The  only  satiable  kind.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  very  much  in  love  with  you.  I  feel  this  more 
deeply  than  I'd  thought  it  possible  to  feel  anything. 
I'm  not  fond  of  superlatives.  But  I  know  that 
you've  stirred  my  life  to  its  foundations.  There's 
been  nothing  like  this! 

"Don't  retort  that  my  disillusionments  are  very 
different  from  your  ideals.  The  ideal  is  for  a  life- 
time— maybe  even  beyond.  The  disillusionment  is 
only  sure  of  the  hour.  Perhaps.  But  what  an 
hour!" 

His  voice  died  in  his  throat.  He  wrapped  his 
hands  together.  And,  though  he  did  not  approach 
her  by  a  hair's-breadth,  once  more  she  seemed  to  feel 
his  passion  sweep  out,  like  a  sheet  of  flame,  and  play 
round  her. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  115 

But  now  she  was  not-afraid.  Her  fear  had  left  her 
in  that  moment  when  youth  had  peeped  through  the 
mask.  She  had  recalled  Sangallo's  words,  "That 
man's  soul  is  dead.  .  .  ."  And  there  is  no  room  in 
the  heart  for  fear  and  pity  together. 

Looking  him  in  the  eyes,  she  answered,  quietly: 

"I'm  sorry  for  you.  I'm  sorry  for  any  one  who  is 
so  far  from  God." 

"But  if  God,  after  all,  is  only  a  creation  of  the 
imagination?" 

"  What  is  love  but  that?  "  she  retorted,  then  bit  her 
Up. 

"Ah.     I  see  you  don't  yet  know  love." 

She  felt  her  cheeks  tingling.  All  her  being  was  in 
revolt  against  this  moment  of  intimacy,  of  revelation, 
that  he,  with  surely  a  diabolical  ingenuity,  had  driven 
her  to.  She  stammered,  by  way  of  recovery: 

"  I  should  have  told  you  at  first  that — I'm  engaged 
to  be  married." 

He  seemed  not  to  have  heard  this  speech.  Staring 
afield,  he  asked: 

"Do  you  realize  that  for  half  an  hour  you've  been 
here,  alone,  with  a  most  corrupt  and  unscrupulous 
character,  who'd  give  all  the  world  for  you?  If  you 
told  that  in  Rome  to-night!  They'd  never  believe 
we  hadn't  played  some  very  thrilling  melodrama  out 
here." 

Standing  up,  he  pointed  across  the  Campagna. 

"  I  see  three  riders  coming  back.  Two  men  and  a 
woman.  Can  you  make  them  out?" 

She  discerned,  on  a  far-off  ridge,  two  specks  of  red 


Ii6  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

and  one  of  black.  They  were  not  approaching,  but 
moving  slowly  southward. 

"I  hardly  think  there's  a  good  enough  pair  of  eyes 
among  them  to  see  us  under  these  trees.  Now  I'm 
going  to  put  you  on  your  horse.  When  you  join 
them,  you'd  better  not  mention  me.  I  suspect  the 
black  dot  is  Mme.  Semadeni.  If  so,  you  won't  have 
to  mention  anything.  She's  a  decent  sort.  The 
only  woman  of  my  acquaintance  who  knows  how  to 
hold  her  tongue  in  Rome." 

He  led  the  way  round  behind  the  hut.  There  he 
gave  her  a  hand-up,  fixed  her  foot  in  the  stirrup, 
pulled  down  her  apron-skirt.  Stepping  back,  he 
said: 

"Good-by." 

"  Good-by.    And— thank  you." 

"It's  I  who  owe  the  thanks." 

She  rode  away. 

He  went  back  to  the  bench,  sat  down,  and  lighted 
a  cigarette.  Stretching  out  his  long  legs,  he  closed 
his  eyes  wearily.  He  was  like  a  man  relaxing  from 
an  abnormal  strain  of  self-retention. 

Soon,  without  opening  his  eyes,  he  uttered  a  sort 
of  laugh: 

"Not  bad.        ." 


CHAPTER  VII 

AFTER  her  encounter  with  Sebastian  Maure  in  the 
Campagna,  Ghirlaine  Bellamy  wondered  at  her  past 
apprehensions.  His  confidences  had  not  deceived 
her.  She  felt  that  his  pretence  of  frankness  con- 
cealed a  depravity  not  to  be  put  into  words.  Still, 
he  no  longer  frightened  her. 

She  had  no  doubt  of  the  intensity,  or  the  char- 
acter, of  his  feelings  toward  her.  Yet,  in  that  lonely 
place,  the  notorious  antagonist  of  restraint  had  failed 
to  apply  his  theories  in  the  slightest.  She  believed 
that  his  audacity,  at  least,  was  greatly  overestimated. 
She  had  been  alarmed  by  some  one  whose  conduct, 
at  the  pinch,  turned  out  to  be  very  much  like  that 
of  the  rest  of  her  world. 

Her  forebodings  vanished.  Things  about  her  re- 
sumed their  normal  look.  She  recalled  Mme.  Se- 
madeni's  "palmistry"  with  a  smile.  All  these  days, 
how  absurdly  hysterical  she  had  been!  How  credu- 
lous! How  unlike  herself! 

At  the  same  time,  she  found  herself  at  liberty  to 
set  out  toward  England.  Her  aunt  was  conva- 
lescent. The  doctor  prescribed  a  sea  voyage.  They 
decided  to  sail  north,  by  the  Asiatic,  from  Naples,  in 
three  days.  Ghirlaine  cabled  to  Vincent  Pamfort 
that  she  would  reach  London  within  a  fortnight. 

She  anticipated  that  meeting  with  a  new  fervor. 

117 


n8  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

It  was  as  if  she  had  hardly  appreciated  her  lover  till 
now.  But  Sebastian  Maure's  proposal  had  arrayed 
those  two  personalities  side  by  side  with  startling  dis- 
tinctness. At  last  she  knew  the  full  value  of  the  man 
she  had  promised  to  marry. 

How  much  he  offered  her!  But  she  would  know 
how  to  repay  him.  .  .  .  One  would  have  said  that  the 
flames  of  the  unwelcome  passion,  playing  round  her, 
had,  indeed,  warmed  her  heart  to  unprecedented 
ardors — but  for  another. 

She  seemed  already  to  see,  as  a  setting  for  life-long 
happiness,  the  fair  English  countryside,  and  that 
homestead  of  a  congenial  race,  full  of  honors.  Ought 
she  not  to  be  happy? 

"So  I  am,"  she  said.  "The  happiest  girl  in  the 
world." 

She  was  sitting  in  her  pale-blue  salon  at  the  Excel- 
sior. Her  maid  had  filled  all  the  furniture  with 
folded  dresses,  preparatory  to  packing  them. 

They  were  of  silk,  of  satin,  of  lace,  of  gold  and  silver 
tissue,  and  covered  with  needlework  that  had  cost 
untold  hours  of  toil.  They  were  not,  perhaps,  the 
attire  of  a  European  young  girl,  but  of  an  American, 
one  of  those  who  to-day  still  astonish  the  Conti- 
nent by  being,  in  costume  and  manner,  at  once  a 
jeune  fille  and  a  woman  of  the  world.  They  formed 
the  panoply  of  one  who  has  to  preserve  for  beauty 
that  supreme  respect  only  earned,  in  her  native 
sphere,  by  its  extravagant  adornment.  They  rep- 
resented a  fortune  sufficient  to  have  kept  many  a 
household  in  comfort  for  years. 


THE   ISLE  OF  LIFE  119 

From  those  shimmering  heaps,  it  was  difficult  to- 
choose  the  gowns  she  wanted  to  wear,  the  two  days 
that  remained  to  her  in  Rome. 

This  afternoon,  she  was  going  to  a  tea  at  Mme.  .de 
Chaumont's.  There  she  would  have  to  tell  every 
one  she  was  departing.  Sebastian  Maure,  on  hear- 
ing this  news,  would  try  to  see  her  again? 

After  all,  if  he  succeeded,  what  harm?  In  three 
days,  she  would  leave  him  behind  forever!  She  did 
not  think  of  him  again  till  she  was  at  Mme.  de  Chau- 
mont's. 

In  the  long  suite  of  reception-rooms,  all  the  win- 
dows were  screened  against  the  sunshine.  Shaded 
lamps  diffused  a  glow  that  left  the  cornices  in  shadow. 
Round  the  tea-tables,  the  radiance  was  most  intense, 
as  if  issuing  from  the  masses  of  chased  silver  and 
crystal,  crowned  with  roses. 

The  conversation  was  deafening.  One  hardly 
heard  the  string-band,  as  it  played  the  latest  languor- 
ous waltz.  The  hot  air,  drugged  with  many  per- 
fumes and  the  odors  of  flowers,  furs,  and  food,  pul- 
sated from  the  din.  Through  a  sort  of  reddish  mist 
appeared  countless  powdered  faces,  the  intermingling 
plumes  of  extraordinary  hats,  necks  decked  with 
jewels,  figures  constricted  in  rich-colored  silks,  that 
slipped  round  one  another  with  serpentine  dexterity. 
Here  and  there,  a  man's  bare  head  was  raised,  an  eye- 
glass flashed,  an  uptwirled  mustache  disappeared 
behind  a  tea-cup. 

Mme.  de  Chaumont,  in  purple  satin,  her  corsage 
ornamented  with  diamonds,  looked  almost  handsome 


120  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

as  she  received  the  swarm.  A  sweet  smile  kept  re- 
turning to  her  lips.  If  she  detested  society,  no  one 
would  have  supposed  it  from  her  demeanor.  This 
spirituettf,  slim  creature,  who  was  credited  with  a 
longing  to  enter  the  Sacre  Cceur,  appeared  to-day  a 
woman  of  the  Parisian  great  world. 

Ghirlaine  saw,  above  the  fluttering  hats,  the  black- 
ish, solemn  ugliness  of  Don  Giulio  Brazzazza.  And 
she  was  not  in  time  to  check  the  thought,  "Possibly 
so  good  an  actress  may  have  other  roles?" 

The  next  instant,  she  asked  herself:  "Good 
Heavens,  shall  I  end  by  having  a  mind  like  half  the 
rest?  Is  all  this  affecting  me,  too,  at  last?" 

And  suddenly  the  air  of  that  place,  sweet,  lax,  and 
vitiated,  seemed  laden  with  an  insidious  poison. 

How  long  she  had  breathed  its  like! 

Beside  her,  spread  over  a  chair,  the  Marchesa  of 
Portagialla  leaned  on  her  canes.  She  looked  like  an 
obese,  bewhiskered  old  idol.  Her  little  black  eyes 
glittered  behind  their  rolls  of  fat. 

"Eh,  my  dear,  and  whose  heart  are  you  going  to 
break  to-day?" 

In  fact,  all  the  men  in  the  room  were  staring  at 
Ghirlaine.  She  wore  a  costume  of  peacock-blue,  em- 
broidered over  the  bust  with  dull  gold.  At  her  neck 
was  a  brooch  of  sapphires  that  matched  the  hue  of 
her  eyes,  these  shadowed  by  the  wide  brim  of  her  hat 
laden  with  peacock-blue  willow-plumes. 

Smiling,  she  answered  the  old  Marchesa: 

"But  aren't  hearts  rather  hard  to  break,  after  all?  " 

"Dio  mio!    At  your  age  I'd  seen  at  least  one  at- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  121 

tempt  at  suicide,  not  to  mention  the  duels.  What's 
the  world  coming  to?  There  seem  to  be  very  few 
really  ardent  temperaments  left!  In  the  Rome  of 
the  Caesars,  a  girl  was  married  at  thirteen  more  often 
than  not.  I  hear  that  in  your  country,  to-day,  half 
of  them  put  it  off  till  they're  thirty.  A  few  years 
more,  and  I  wonder  how  the  human  race  is  going  to 
continue  legitimately! " 

Sangallo  appeared  beside  them. 

"I'm  about  to  run  away  with  Miss  Bellamy,  if 
you'll  let  me?  Donna  Letizia's  looking  for  her." 

"Very  well,  young  man.  Though  in  my  time, 
thank  God,  that  wasn't  how  one  ran  away  with  a 
beauty.  ..." 

As  they  made  through  the  crowd,  the  novelist  re- 
marked: 

"I  hear  you're  leaving." 

"Day  after  to-morrow." 

"I'm  going  to  miss  you.  Some  time,  when  I  voy- 
age to  England,  you'll  let  me  call  on  you  both?" 

She  had  a  shock  of  surprise.  Her  engagement  was 
known! 

"How  did  you  find  that  out?" 

"You  could  never  guess.  Fancy — an  accidental 
word  let  fall  by  a  peasant-girl!" 

And,  without  removing  his  gaze  from  her  face,  he 
related  the  talk  in  Brian  Dungannan's  studio. 

"But  I'm  sure  your  secret's  still  safe — even  in 
Rome !  There  were  only  the  four  of  us.  And  Maure, 
whatever  his  faults  may  be,  isn't  a  gossip." 

After  a  moment's  thought,  she  demanded: 


122  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"When  was  all  this?" 

"The  day  before  the  last  Meeting." 

So  Sebastian  Maure  had  known  it  when  he  met  her 
in  the  Campagna! 

"Where  is  Donna  Letizia,"  she  inquired,  in  a 
rather  breathless  voice. 

They  found  her  with  Mme.  Semadeni. 

But  Princess  Campobasso  came  hurrying  through 
the  crush.  Dressed  in  smoky-red  silk,  she  wore 
round  her  white  throat  a  necklet  of  rubies.  Ap- 
proaching Ghirlaine,  she  cried: 

"It's  not  true  you're  deserting  us!" 

"The  doctor  wants  Aunt  Charlotte  to  take  a  sea 
voyage " 

"So  you  must  sacrifice  yourself!  Really,  you 
know,  this  self-sacrifice  thing  can  be  run  in  the 
ground.  If  Sangallo  will  stop  his  ears,  I've  been 
strengthening  that  opinion  of  late  by  reading 

"Sebastian  Maure?"  drawled  Mme.  Semadeni. 

"Sebastian  Maure  indeed!  Nietzsche,  my  dear! 
The  apostle  of  Dionysian  happiness." 

"Nietzsche,"  repeated  Don  Leone  Torquato, 
lounging  up,  very  pale  and  tired-looking.  "Ah, 
yes.  The  chap  who  died  insane.  Why  is  it  that  the 
apostles  of  happiness  are  apt  to  die  so  uncomfort- 
ably? And,  often,  so  early?" 

He  interrupted  himself  with  a  fit  of  coughing. 

Donna  Letizia  Torquato  made  a  quick  gesture. 
But  at  once  she  resumed  her  habitual  look,  half  proud 
and  half  sad. 

Ghirlaine  glanced  from  mother  to  son.     She  re- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  123 

called  the  tales  she  had  heard  about  this  boy.  As  if 
the  inheritance  of  his  father's  degenerate  line  were 
not  enough,  he  persisted,  with  a  sort  of  fatal  madness, 
in  debauchery  that  was  killing  him  even  before  his 
time. 

"But  do  you  admire  Nietzsche,  Don  Leone?" 

"I  confess  I  find  Sebastian  Maure's  philosophy 
more  satisfying.  You  see,  in  some  ways  it  goes 
farther.  Then,  too,  it's  dressed  in  fiction:  conse- 
quently its  appeal  is  wider.  Besides,  it's  much  easier 
to  read.  Maure's  style  is  remarkably  lucid.  His 
sentences  would  charm  a  child  or  an  artist.  How 
about  that,  Ernesto?" 

Sangallo  assented: 

"A  style  fit  to  be  the  medium  of  a  great  propa- 
ganda." 

Hector  de  Chaumont's  fan-shaped  beard  joined  the 
circle.  And  the  Frenchman,  in  his  shallow,  lyrical 
voice,  protested  at  once: 

"Propaganda!  My  dear  fellow!  Art  ceases  to  be 
art,  when  it  starts  to  preach.  Literature,  to  go  on 
existing,  has  got  to  keep  out  of  the  pulpit." 

"If  Voltaire,  for  instance,  had  held  that  opinion, 
the  eighteenth  century  would  hardly  have  seen  a 
French  Revolution,  or  the  birth  of  liberty,  equality, 
and  fraternity." 

"La,  la!  Merely  words,  even  to-day.  A  mirage 
in  the  minds  of  idealists." 

"It's  by  constantly  reaffirming  ideals  that  we 
finally  turn  them  to  practice." 

"I  think,"  sai^iiw^ople,  "ideafejare  a  frightful 


;    ;.  :    . 


124  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

bore.  Indeed,  I  agree  with  Maure  that  they're  quite 
absurd." 

Sangallo's  eyes  met  Ghirlaine's.  She  recalled  his 
words  in  the  Borghese  Gardens,  "It  isn't  the  strong 
alone  who  read,  but  also  the  weak.  And  weakness 
is  always  susceptible  to  disease.  .  .  ." 

And  she  saw,  in  this  sickly  youth  before  her, 
driven  on  toward  his  fate  by  his  inability  to  resist 
evil  influence,  the  personification  of  all  Maure's  vic- 
tims. This  one  epitomized  all  the  morally  crippled, 
the  inefficient  of  conscience,  the  feeble  in  need  of 
strength,  whose  pitiable  perversity  had  brought  them 
in  sympathy  with  that  arch-perversity,  to  their 
greater  prostration.  And  at  this  moment  she  hated 
Sebastian  Maure  as  never  before. 

Her  face  must  have  spoken  thus  to  Sangallo.  For 
his  brows  contracted.  He  shook  his  head.  He 
seemed  to  be  telling  her,  "Now  you  are  going  too 
fast.  .  .  ." 

But  Leone  was  relating  some  scandal  to  Hector  de 
Chaumont.  Fiammetta  Innocenti  and  Andreas  Ro- 
mano vitch  had  parted  "forever."  He  knew  this  for 
a  fact.  He  had  passed  her  hotel  just  as  the  Russian 
dashed  out  on  the  sidewalk,  beside  himself,  a  spec- 
tacle for  the  passers-by. 

"Bah!"  de  Chaumont  commented,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "With  those  two,  it's  always  like  that." 

"I  think  not.  He  jumped  into  my  cab.  While  I 
was  taking  him  home,  he  renounced  her  formally. 
She's  made  a  mistake  this  time.  She's  plagued  him 
once  too  often.  And  all  the  thousands " 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  125 

"In  fact,"  de  Chaumont  assented,  "he  has  been 
hard  up  of  late." 

Mme.  Semadeni  did  not  hesitate  to  join  this  dis- 
cussion: 

"If  Andreas  Romanovitch  pretends  he's  hard  up, 
on  that  account  or  any  other,  it's  merely  another 
pose.  The  Tchernaieff  family  is  enormously  rich. 
Half  the  independent  oil-fields  round  Baku  are  in 
their  hands.  I  suppose  this  one  thinks  that  poverty 
is  chic.  Just  so,  he  pretends  he's  depraved,  when  he's 
naturally  religious.  But  mon  Dieu!  What  would 
life  be  like,  without  its  grotesques!" 

Her  Slavonic  pessimism  appeared.  She  looked 
round  her,  sombre-eyed,  as  if  disenchanted  with 
everything. 

"This  Innocenti  began  in  the  gutter,  I  hear,"  said 
Donna  Letizia.  Her  famous  charity  could  not  ex- 
tend to  that  "creature,"  whom  her  son  quite  frankly 
admired.  But  de  Chaumont,  thoughtfully  stroking 
his  beard,  asked  Leone: 

"When  did  this  business  happen?" 

"While  I  was  on  my  way  here." 

"Tiens.  .  .  ." 

And,  as  soon  as  the  conversation  had  changed,  he 
vanished. 

Leone,  on  missing  him,  at  once  guessed  the  truth. 
He  glanced  toward  Mme.  de  Chaumont,  who  was  still 
receiving  industriously.  Then,  with  a  snicker,  in 
English : 

"Rather  schokking,  what?" 

Ghirlaine  made  as  if  to  pass  on  to  another  group. 
But  Princess  Betty  detained  her. 


126  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"  Not  till  you've  promised  to  spend  to-morrow  with 
me.  Besides,  you  must  tell  me  how  Tito  met  wdth  his, 
accident.  Over  the  telephone,  he  does  nothing  but 
make  silly  jokes  about  it." 

"Does  Tito  make  jokes  now?"  Leone  inquired, 
with  malicious  interest.  "Diamine,  it's  wonderful! 
He's  certainly  getting  on." 

And,  since  no  one  looked  at  him  askance,  he 
ventured  to  add: 

"See  the  miracles  it  effects!" 

"That  what  effects?"  Princess  Betty  demanded. 

"Why,  Roman  civilization!" 

Sangallo  was  telling  Ghirlaine  of  a  visit  he  had 
received  from  John  Elzevir,  the  old  recluse  who  lived 
out  toward  Tivoli.  But  she  heard  Princess  Campo- 
basso  say: 

"  Mme.  Semadeni,  you  know  the  Caucasus 

"I  was  born  there." 

"Then  perhaps  you  can  give  us  the  facts  of  that 
story  about  Sebastian  Maure.  You've  heard  it?" 

"Who  hasn't?"  responded  the  Russian,  smiling 
languidly. 

"Is  it  true  he  abducted  the  girl  from  the  con- 
vent?" 

"Some  one  did.     At  the  time,  I  was  in  Bulgaria." 

"But  you  know  all  the  thrilling  details?" 

"Thrilling?  But  really,  in  the  Caucasus  abduc- 
tions aren't  so  rare.  Besides,  this  young  woman 
wasn't  to  take  the  veil.  Her  parents  had  merely  put 
her  away  because  she  seemed  skittish.  Her  fiance 
didn't  please  her,  I  understand.  Just  before  the  wed- 
ding-day, she  managed  to  run  off  with  the  stranger. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  127 

Perhaps  he'd  promised  to.  show  her  Paris !  When  one 
is  young,  it's  astonishing  what  trifling  fancies  decide 
the  future." 

"But  you're  spoiling  all  the  romance!  At  least, 
don't  tell  me  they  weren't  pursued." 

"Oh,  as  much  as  you  wish  of  that.  Mountain 
gorges;  sun  on  snow;  bullets  splashing  against  the 
rocks.  The  crack  of  rifles,  and  figures  rolling  down 
distant  hillsides  like  little  brown  bowlders.  Sore 
feet;  aching  limbs;  dirty  faces  swathed  in  bandages, 
above  empty  bandoliers.  He  started,  I  think,  with  a 
dozen  men,  and  ended  with  three.  Afesta  for  vult- 
ures, that  elopement!" 

"How  wonderfully  you  tell  it!" 

"I  know  the  country." 

"And  what  became  of  her?" 

"Who  can  say?  Perhaps  they  were  married,  she 
and  that  Whoever-he-was.  Indeed,  why  not?  One 
ought  to  give  every  one  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  till 
the  contrary's  proved.  Am  I  right,  Signore  San- 
gallo?" 

"Certainly." 

"How  incredible  it  all  seems,"  said  Donna  Letizia, 
looking  round  as  if  waking  out  of  a  dream. 

"It's  a  question  of  locality.  The  atmosphere  of 
different  places  impels  different  sorts  of  conduct.  In 
the  Caucasus,  such  things  often  take  a  violent  turn. 
Here,  they  remain  surreptitious.  One  is  always  in- 
fluenced, more  or  less,  by  environment.  What's  ex- 
travagant in  Rome  becomes  conventional  in  the 
wilds." 


128  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

But  Princess  Betty,  gazing  into  space,  exclaimed: 

"All  the  same,  that's  the  essence  of  romance! 
Hardship,  peril,  the  fear  of  death,  for  the  sake  of 
passion!  How  much  we  miss  of  emotion,  we  civili- 
sees!  To  be  seized,  to  be  carried  away,  in  a  hail  of 
bullets,  from  the  monotone  of  ordered  life,  by  some 
man  who  is  really  strong " 

Stopping  short,  she  recovered  herself  with  a  laugh. 

"After  all,  one  would  miss  the  luxuries!" 

"And  possibly  the  necessities,"  Mme.  Semadeni 
assented.  "Where  does  one  smoke  in  this  house?" 

"Follow  me.  I  know  all  the  corners — unless 
they're  filled  with  flirters.  Come  along,  Ghirlaine, 
and  tell  us  about  poor  Tito." 

But  she  bade  them  good-by. 

She  felt  that  she  could  no  longer  breathe  in  that 
rose-colored  place.  The  flowers  were  drooping. 
The  air  had  taken  on  a  sickening  sweetness.  And 
this  aroma  seemed  derived  less  from  the  mingled 
scents  of  all  those  elegant  toilettes  than  from  a 
subtle,  yet  pervading  carnality. 

She  told  herself  she  was  overwrought.  The  men- 
tal attitude  of  a  few  ought  not  to  make  her  unjust  to 
the  rest.  But  it  was  as  if,  in  these  close-screened 
rooms,  misty  with  jewels,  rich  fabrics,  and  painted 
lips,  there  was  spreading  to  every  heart  a  contagion 
of  cynicism,  duplicity,  and  spiritual  decay. 

Again  there  rose  before  her  a  vision  of  noble  trees 
against  cold  skies,  far  removed  from  the  corruption 
of  ancient  cities.  .  .  . 

She  gained  the  vestibule.     But  Sangallo  appeared 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  129 

beside  her,  helped  her -into  her  fur  coat,  and  called 
for  her  motor-car.  Then,  taking  her  hand,  he  said, 
with  his  gentle  smile : 

"I  sha'n't  see  you  again.  I  prefer  to  remember 
you  as  you  seem  to  me  at  this  moment.  Even 
though  you're  only  half  right.  Even  though  you're 
setting  out  rather  blindly,  in  consequence.  But 
blindly  or  not,  I  feel  that  you'll  find  what  you're 
hunting  for.  You  have  the  look  of  one  to  whom  the 
truth,  and  all  its  mysterious  rewards,  must  be  re- 
vealed." 

He  paused.  Amid  that  hurly-burly,  his  face  grew 
vacant  in  speculation. 

"I  want  you  to  know  that  I'm  always  at  your  ser- 
vice. At  the  service  of  your  happiness  and  your 
welfare.  That's  not  one  of  those  phrases  of  courtesy, 
which  mean  nothing,  because  they're  not  likely  to 
lead  to  anything.  Some  day,  I  may  be  able  to  help 
you  toward  something  that  you  desire?  .  . 

"So,"  he  concluded,  rousing  himself,  "you  may 
count  on  me,  as  we  romancers  are  often  tempted  to 
write,  'till  the  death.'" 

His  smile  returned.  But  there  was  a  hint  of 
moisture  in  his  eyes.  She  responded,  in  tones  that 
were  slightly  unsteady: 

"I'm  very  proud  to  think  you  let  me  count  on  you 
so.  There's  no  one  I'd  rather  have  for  a  friend." 

"We  have  been  simpatica,  haven't  we?  Well, 
well — good  luck,  and  all  the  happiness  in  the  world." 

"And  for  you,  success  in  all  the  fine  work  you  have 
in  mind.  Even  though,  as  I  understand,  you'd  do 
away  with  the  churches!" 


130  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"  I  wouldn't  do  away  with  them.  I'd  increase  them. 
I'd  have  one  built  in  every  heart.  .  .  .  Not  good-by! 
We'll  meet  again,  one  of  these  days.  A  rivederla." 

"A  rivederla — amico  mio" 

"You've  learned  my  language  at  last!" 

"Only  those  words,  I  think.  They  were  an  in- 
spiration." 

"They're  enough." 

He  kissed  her  hand.  She  entered  the  motor-car, 
and  departed. 

She  let  down  all  the  windows  of  the  limousine,  and 
told  the  chauffeur  to  drive  fast,  at  random.  The 
automobile  rushed  forward  into  the  evening  fog. 

Lights  were  springing  up.  Vehicles  were  blotted 
against  the  bright  shop-windows.  Palaces  towered 
into  the  mist,  gaunt  ruins  emerged,  mediaeval  fagades 
aglitter  with  gold  mosaics,  splotched  walls  hung  with 
ragged  linen,  the  cypresses  of  some  princely  garden, 
rising  above  a  gate  set  with  broken  statues. 

The  air  was  thick  with  the  exhalation  of  all  these 
old  and  crumbling  things.  From  the  mouths  of  alley- 
ways, in  the  stagnant  depths  of  which  the  very  odors 
of  dead  centuries  seemed  embalmed,  there  issued  a 
pestilential,  dispiriting  breath.  Was  not  this  ground, 
so  often  soaked  with  blood  and  tears,  yielding  up  its 
indisinfectable  miasma? 

Her  instinct  was  that  of  a  nation  still  young,  full  of 
vigor,  impatient  of  the  old.  She  perceived  in  these 
surroundings  the  essential  poison  of  progress.  She 
realized  the  impossibility  of  health  in  the  midst  of  so 
much  that  was  dead. 

To  sweep  away  the  old,  to  purify  the  spot  where  so 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  131 

long  it  had  lain  decaying-!  Or,  if  that  was  not  possi- 
ble, to  escape,  as  if  from  a  plague! 

True  life  lay  far  away!  .  .  . 

But  the  walls  enveloped  her,  black,  luminous  with 
the  sweat  of  an  enfeebled  antiquity.  She  saw  the 
portico  of  a  humble  church.  The  quilt  swung  back 
from  the  door.  In  the  light  of  the  lantern,  Andreas 
Romanovitch  came  forth.  His  eyes  were  swollen 
from  weeping.  He  went  away  dragging  his  feet. 
She  shrank  back  in  the  limousine. 

"Home!" 

The  automobile  left  the  alleys,  flashed  across  pi- 
azzas, plunged  into  the  Corso. 

The  fashionable  hour  had  not  yet  ended.  The  nar- 
row sidewalks  were  crowded.  The  roadway  was 
blocked  by  traffic.  Motor-radiators  adorned  with 
brass  images  of  Saint  Christopher,  silver  harness, 
crested  doors,  furs,  orchids,  women's  white  faces, 
moved  past  in  the  light  that  gushed  out  of  show 
windows,  above  the  busbies  and  helmets  of  saunter- 
ing officers.  In  an  old-fashioned  victoria,  beside  an 
elderly  woman-companion,  sat  little  Donna  Dora, 
pale  midst  her  sables,  wide-eyed,  ingenuous,  child- 
like. To  Ghirlaine  she  resembled  a  lily  passing  un- 
harmed through  the  heat  of  a  furnace. 

"I'm  not  myself!  .  .  ." 

She  reached  the  hotel.  In  her  apartment  she 
found  a  letter  from  Lady  Glastenwold: 

Lemster  died  to-day.  I'm  of  for  England.  I  tried  to 
find  you  and  say  good-by.  But  your  aunt  says  you're  fol- 
lowing  . 


132  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

The  letter  dropped  from  her  hand.  Depression 
invaded  her. 

This  death,  which  had  been  the  price  of  the  full 
measure  of  her  happiness,  brought  her  only  remorse. 
How  heartless,  now,  all  those  dreams  she  had 
woven! 

She  remembered  the  girl  in  England,  whom  Vin- 
cent had  once  "thought  he  loved,"  who  doubtless 
loved  him  still. 

What  could  one  hope  for,  from  a  future  built  on 
such  things?  A  man's  life,  and  the  tears  of  a 
woman!  Bad  omens.  .  .  . 

She  looked  out  into  the  mist. 

"But  I  have  my  own  needs,  of  heart  and  soul!" 

Yet  the  air  seemed  heavier  still,  as  if  with  an  im- 
measurable reproach. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IF  Sebastian  Maure  had  glanced  over  the  Italic 
next  morning,  or  the  number  of  the  Garnet  Mondain 
which  appeared  the  day  after,  he  would  have  read 
that  Ghirlaine  was  leaving  Rome.  If,  during  those 
two  days,  he  had  entered  the  Chess  Club,  the  Skating 
Club,  the  winter  garden  of  the  Excelsior,  a  little 
sooner  or  later,  he  might  have  heard  this  news  re- 
peated. Tito,  whom  he  found  in  bed  in  a  plaster 
jacket,  talked  of  nothing  but  aeroplanes,  the  new 
French  uniforms,  and  a  Spanish  dancer  at  the  Salone 
Margherita,  whose  impudent  performances  he  was 
going  to  miss.  Even  Andreas  Romanovitch  could 
not  enlighten  him.  For  Andreas,  according  to  his 
valet,  had  vanished  from  town  for  "a  promenade  in 
the  country." 

Moreover,  such  tattle  was  hardly  to  have  been  ex- 
pected in  the  gloomy  palace  where,  finally,  Sebastian 
went  to  call  on  Prince  Torquato. 

This  aged  eccentric  had  a  rugged  bald  head,  a 
hooked  nose,  and  a  yellow,  arrogant  visage  out  of 
which  peered,  with  a  sort  of  dim  fierceness,  the  eyes 
of  a  dying  eagle.  He  believed  implicitly  that  his 
house  was  descended  from  the  Roman  Torquatus 
who  had  slain  a  barbarian  king  in  the  Gaulish  in- 
vasion. Long  contemplation  of  this  unique  gran- 
deur had  brought  him  to  look  on  himself  as  the  last 

133 


134  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

ancient — the  sole  surviving  spirit  of  the  dead  past. 

It  was  one  of  his  delusions  that  he  was  the  logical 
heir  to  all  the  relics  of  those  first  shadowy  ancestors  of 
his  race.  Sometimes,  at  night,  he  hobbled  out  to 
brood  over  the  Forum,  which  he  permitted  "these 
moderns"  to  meddle  with,  but  which  really  belonged 
to  him  alone.  There  were  even  those  who  said  that 
in  some  recess  of  his  palace  rose  the  last  pagan  altar. 
There  a  thin  flame  still  burned  to  Mars,  while  the 
silence  that  fell  from  those  vast  walls  was  broken 
now  and  then  by  prayers  in  the  primitive  dialect  of 
the  Salii. 

But  if  he  was  intolerant  of  the  religion  which  had 
supplanted  that  one,  he  felt,  at  least,  no  intolerance 
toward  the  irreligion  of  Sebastian  Maure.  In  the 
latter,  he  seemed  to  discern  the  fierce  appetency  and 
ruthlessness  that  had  shaped  the  splendor  of  ancient 
Rome.  He  felt  for  this  foreigner,  in  consequence,  a 
singular  sympathy. 

Now,  however,  the  old  Prince  had  evidently  begun 
to  crumble  in  earnest.  At  first,  he  could  not  remem- 
ber his  visitor.  Then,  at  mention  of  Leone's  name, 
he  maintained  a  blank  face,  while  murmuring: 

"You  know,  my  friend,  I  have  little  acquaintance 
among  these  upstarts  who  infest  our  city  to-day." 

"But  I'm  talking  about  your  grandson,"  Sebastian 
explained. 

"Ah,  my  grandson!"  A  look  of  dull  suffering  ap- 
peared on  his  face,  as  he  sighed: 

"Do  you  know  you  happen  to  live  in  an  extraor- 
dinary age?  You  shall  see  the  end  of  Us.  ..." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  135 

They  were  sitting  in  an  immense  room  of  unusual 
height,  cold,  damp,  and  dim,  for  all  the  sunshine 
blazing  out  of  doors  beyond  the  bolted  shutters. 
The  floor  was  paved  in  concentric  patterns  with  red 
and  yellow  tiles  worn  glossy  by  many  generations  of 
the  Torquati.  The  walls  were  covered  with  rotted 
leather,  painted  and  gilded  in  designs  of  mediaeval 
naivete.  The  shadowy  ceiling  showed  intersecting 
beams,  thickly  carved  with  shields,  whereon  glim- 
mered the  arms  of  related  families  long  since  extinct. 

Indeed,  this  grim  old  palace  still  maintained  the 
quaint,  uncomfortable  grandeur  of  its  youth,  when 
torches  blazed  about  its  gates,  when  casements  were 
often  marks  for  cross-bow  bolts,  when  swords  went 
to  work  on  its  winding  stairways,  and  trap-doors 
yawned  suddenly,  to  send  hated  visitors  tumbling 
into  an  oubliette  full  of  bones  and  rusty  armor.  To- 
day, this  old  Prince,  tilting  the  window-shutters, 
could  look  out  into  the  street  as  if  upon  a  different 
world. 

Now,  his  face  full  of  animosity,  he  peered  down, 
through  the  wooden  slats,  at  the  passers-by.  The 
words  escaped  him: 

"What  degenerates!" 

He  motioned  Sebastian  to  join  him  at  the  window. 

"Per  Bacco!  Those  women  in  their  carriages! 
Their  high  heels!  Their  corsets!  Their  ridiculous 
hats!  Their  feet  crippled  by  their  stilted  shoes! 
Their  teeth  ruined  by  sugar  and  soft  food!  Their  in- 
dolent bodies  feebler  than  a  child's!  All  their  vital 
organs  squeezed  into  a  half -lifeless  mass !  But  if  the 
Venus  of  Milo  were  to  appear  before  them  in  the  flesh, 


136  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

how  they'd  laugh  at  her!  Yet  they're  the  respon- 
sible ones — those  dolls,  who  give  birth  to  the  hered- 
itary masters  of  all  this  degenerate  humanity!" 

Sebastian,  who  was  able  to  see  both  sides  of  at 
least  a  good  many  questions,  thought  this  apportion- 
ment of  responsibility  a  trifle  unfair. 

He  responded,  with  a  short  laugh: 

"I  suppose  it's  my  famous  perversity  that  sympa- 
thizes with  all  this  twentieth-century  artificiality? 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  do  you  think  that  men  who  had 
grown  accustomed  to  the  allure  of  this  type  would 
ever  be  content  to  return  to  the  other?" 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  one's  personal  satisfaction, 
but  of  one's  descendants." 

"Ah,  one's  descendants!" 

"And  you?  Do  you  never  think  of  those  who  may 
follow  you?" 

Sebastian  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  fancy  I  rather  lack  the  paternal  instinct.  I'm 
not  much  on  children.  ..."  He  added,  his  dark 
skin  slightly  flushing,  "Perhaps  I  should  say  that 
children  aren't  much  for  me.  ..." 

But  Prince  Torquato  was  not  listening.  Pres- 
ently, taking  Sebastian  by  the  arm,  he  said,  in  a 
tremulous  voice: 

"Do  you  know,  sometimes,  at  night,  I  have  a  curi- 
ous dream.  I  seem  to  be  standing  on  the  Palatine 
Hill.  Rome  lies  before  me  in  the  moonlight.  But 
all  is  changing,  in  a  mist  of  altering  outlines.  These 
hideous  modern  buildings  dissolve.  Turrets  and  bat- 
tlements take  their  places.  The  battlements  give 
place  to  ruins,  the  ruins  to  great  glistening  temples 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  137 

and  porticos.  Then  those  forests  of  columns  melt 
into  humbler  structures,  of  freestone,  roughly  chis- 
elled, and  these  to  huts.  And  I'm  looking  down  on 
the  beginnings  of  my  city. 

* '  And  I  see  another  race  of  women.  Strong  bodies, 
supple,  agile,  buoyant,  shining  with  health!  Under 
loose  garments,  firm  torsos,  that  support  themselves 
with  beautiful  muscles!  Straight  backs,  massive 
limbs,  broad  hips  ready  for  their  natural  burdens! 
Firm,  flat  feet,  with  toes  as  individual  as  fingers,  that 
grip  the  earth  as  if  they  loved  it !  ...  And  the  high 
head  of  the  water-carriers!  The  long  stride!  The 
vigorous,  undulating  grace  of  bodies  that  know  labor! 
The  innocent,  casual  nudity  of  an  age  that  was  not 
ashamed  of  nakedness,  because  its  nakedness  was  not 
degenerate!  .  .  . 

"  So  I  seem  to  see  the  women  of  Romulus's  Rome. 
The  mothers  of  her  vigor,  whom  we  stole,  that  day, 
from  the  Sabines.  Whom  we  stole  because  we  needed 
them.  Because  we  wanted  them.  Because  our  nat- 
ures knew  nothing  of  pity,  or  foreign  opinion,  or  fear, 
when  these  things  were  balanced  against  our  desires. 
Because  we  were  men  indeed,  the  Children  of  the 
Wolf,  predatory,  ruthless,  invincible,  as  man  was 
meant  to  be.  ... 

"But  time  crumbles  everything.  ..." 

He  returned  to  his  chair,  and  sat  down  feebly. 
And,  while  his  dim  gaze  roved  round  the  cornices,  he 
concluded,  in  husky  tones: 

"Rome  is  finished!  It's  the  last  pulse-beat  of  the 
old  that's  dying!" 


138  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Was  it  not  true? 

Outside  the  tall  windows,  the  modern  world  was 
racketting — tram-car  bells,  motor-horns,  the  cries  of 
news- venders,  and,  from  the  suburbs,  faintly,  factory 
whistles.  Those  sounds  invaded  the  silence  of  this 
cold  dismal  place,  where  all  was  immobility  and  age. 
They  had  the  insistence  of  an  imperious  warning. 

They  stood  for  activity  of  thought,  for  labor  with 
aspiration,  for  a  new  order  of  life,  a  new  programme 
of  human  progress.  Beginning  far  off,  in  lands  teem- 
ing with  vigor  and  spiritual  enfranchisement,  they 
had  sent  their  echoes  even  thus  far.  They  sounded 
about  the  Seven  Hills,  round  the  ruins  of  despots' 
palaces,  round  basilicas  that  had  been  the  temples  of 
pagan  gods,  round  the  houses  of  a  nobility  still  deaf 
to  the  note  of  universal  brotherhood  in  that  din, 
round  hovels  of  the  poor  wrho  were  too  deep  in  the 
mire  to  realize,  yet,  that  such  sounds  were  meant  also 
for  them.  Even  to  Rome,  so  long  the  heart  of  the 
world's  rapacity  and  injustice,  so  long  the  field  of 
ruins,  languor,  stagnation,  came  that  clamor  of  a 
humanity  struggling  into  a  union  of  science  and 
brotherhood.  It  penetrated  this  room,  where  these 
two  sat  listening. 

But  while  one,  with  a  heavy  gesture,  acquiesced 
to  defeat,  the  other,  squaring  his  shoulders,  defied 
anew  that  spirit  so  inimical  to  all  his  instincts  and 
convictions.  And  presently  it  seemed  to  him  that 
all  the  world's  enmity  and  opposition  were  personi- 
fied in  her.  .  .  . 

Yet  that  was  the  woman  he  desired,  despite  her 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  139 

purity,  her  idealism,  herxlear  gaze  raised  to  the  Be- 
yond, informed  with  the  certainty  of  imperishable 
things!  And  all  the  obstacles  that  rose  between 
them  only  intensified  his  determination. 

Still,  passion  was  not  going  to  tempt  him  into 
rashness.  He  knew  when  subtlety  was  better  than 
violence.  There  are  few  repulsions  that  time  cannot 
abate,  if  time  is  aided  by  ingenious  persuasion. 

He  counted  on  at  least  a  month  more  with  her  in 
Rome.  He  believed  he  could  afford  to  go  slowly. 

Thus,  on  the  morning  when  she  set  out  for  Naples, 
chance  impelled  him  to  spend  the  day  in  the  saddle, 
outside  the  walls. 

He  rode  eastward  across  the  brown  plain  marked 
here  and  there  with  crumbling  mediaeval  towers,  and 
broken  arches  of  ancient  aqueducts.  Perhaps,  from 
a  hilltop,  he  saw  the  train  that  was  bearing  her  away. 
But  the  mountains  called  him  on,  their  warm  slopes, 
rising  above  a  dull-green  haze  of  olive-groves,  set 
with  tiny  sun-bright  villages. 

He  had  nearly  reached  Tivoli,  when  the  heat  ap- 
prised him  that  it  was  time  to  rest  his  horse  and 
lunch.  Some  distance  off,  on  a  hillside,  a  modest 
farm  appeared,  sheltered  midst  orange-groves.  A 
flower-garden  blazed  round  a  rustic  pergola.  Bee- 
hives clustered  beyond.  Thither  he  turned,  expect- 
ing a  peasant's  welcome.  But  beneath  the  trees  he 
came  on  an  old,  frail  foreigner,  with  white  beard, 
translucent  skin,  and  deep-set  eyes  that  looked  forth 
in  profound  benignity.  Sebastian  drew  rein. 

"Pardon  me  for  this  intrusion.  I've  evidently 
made  a  mistake." 


140  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"  How  so?"  the  old  man  asked  him,  smiling.  "  You 
were  hunting  for  rest  and  food,  were  you  not,  Mr. 
Maure?" 

"It  appears,  sir,  that  I  have  met  you  somewhere." 

"I  saw  you  at  Princess  Campobasso's  ball,"  the 
other  responded.  Apparently  he  was  not  conscious 
of  the  incongruity  of  that  speech,  as  it  issued  from 
the  lips  of  an  old  fellow  whose  clothes  were  thread- 
bare and  earthy,  who  stood  before  a  home  so  small, 
so  humble,  and  so  still. 

"I  am  John  Elzevir,"  he  added. 

"The  fact  that  I'm  a  trespasser ' 

"This  house  belongs  to  you  as  much  as  it  does  to 
me." 

"Oh?    I  presumed  you  lived  here." 

"As  far  as  that  goes,  so  I  do.  .  .  .  Shall  we  see  to 
your  horse?  For  yourself,  I  don't  say  a  filet  de  sole 
Mornay,  a  fioulet  saute  Grand  Due,  or  a  bottle  of 
Romance  Conti  1856.  After  all,  hunger  is  still  the 
best  sauce." 

Sebastian  dismounted. 

"Undoubtedly!"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "There 
was  once  a  day  when  I  found  rare  dog  a  surprising 
delicacy.  Another  when  I  began  to  broil  a  lizard 
with  the  gayest  anticipations.  But  the  light  of  the 
lire  brought  me  a  soft-nosed  bullet,  and  I  had  to  give 
up.  Cooked  lizard,  perhaps.  But  raw?  One  must 
draw  the  line  somewhere." 

John  Elzevir  regarded  him  thoughtfully. 

"You  have  had  your  glimpses  of  life,  my  friend." 

"I've  gone  in  search  of  them,"  Sebastian  replied, 
with  a  shrug.  "But  you,  too,  it  seems  to  me?" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  141 

"We  all  stumble  through  the  rudiments  of  educa- 
tion," the  old  man  said  and  led  the  way  to  the  house. 

They  lunched  in  the  kitchen,  on  cheese,  gray 
bread,  and  a  flask  of  Orvieto,  which  the  host  did  not 
touch.  At  that  repast,  a  peasant  farm-hand  kept 
them  company,  gaunt,  swarthy,  his  bare  arms 
knotted  like  olive-branches,  silent,  voracious.  Occa- 
sionally, his  large  eyes,  which  seemed  a  trifle  clouded 
and  wild,  turned  to  John  Elzevir  in  dog-like  devotion. 

The  latter  explained  in  English: 

"Ten  years  ago  he  killed  his  master,  who  had 
treated  him  badly.  While  he  was  lying  in  prison,  his 
children  died  of  cholera,  and  his  wife  ran  away  with 
another  man.  When  he  came  out,  he  was  all  for 
being  a  brigand.  We  had  many  long  talks  on  that 
subject." 

"And  when  do  you  expect  the  vendetta?" 

John  Elzevir,  turning  to  the  Italian,  said: 

"Our  friend  wants  to  know  how  soon  you're  going 
to  kill  Jacopo  and  Mimmi?" 

The  farm-hand  stared  solemnly  at  Sebastian. 

"Signore,  I'm  not  ashamed  any  more  to  let  them 
live.  When  I  go  to  the  village,  the  boys  make  fun 
of  me.  They  offer  to  lend  me  a  knife.  But  I  tell 
them  Domeneddio  prefers  to  attend  to  those  two 
Himself,  after  they've  learned  the  little  lesson  He's 
set  them.  For  me  to  interrupt  it  would  be  dis- 
courteous to  Him.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"Sicuro — surely,"  John  Elzevir  remarked. 

"  Eh,  so  I  say,  because  you've  instructed  me.  But 
the  boys  in  the  village  think  I'm  mad." 


142  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"They  haven't  yet  learned  their  own  little  les- 
son," the  old  man  said. 

"They  say  I  am  mad  through  living  here." 

"You'll  be  madder  still  before  we're  through." 

"Eh,  by  God's  help,"  the  man  assented,  with  the 
grave  smile  of  a  child. 

John  Elzevir  looked  at  Sebastian  thoughtfully. 
At  last,  he  mused: 

"The  poor  are  wonderful,  aren't  they?  .  .  .  Per- 
haps you're  not  well  acquainted  with  them?  So 
many  aren't.  One  misses  so  much  that  way.  They 
have  such  a  lot  to  tell.  There  are  countless  mar- 
vellous things  that  only  the  poor  can  tell  us.  Has  it 
really  never  seemed  so  to  you?" 

"Never." 

"Ah.  Will  you  have  more  wine?  Then  let's  go 
out  and  see  the  bees." 

Sebastian  lighted  a  cigar.  They  walked  down  into 
the  garden. 

Roses  were  everywhere,  red,  pink,  white,  yellow, 
orange-colored.  Beside  the  path,  they  gathered  in 
great  masses,  to  climb  the  tree-trunks,  and  to  load 
all  the  branches  with  their  gorgeousness.  The  soft 
air  was  redolent  of  their  breath.  And  through  that 
perfumed  silence,  from  box-hives  each  painted  with 
its  own  heraldic-looking  designs  and  colors,  the  bees 
came  humming,  to  assist,  in  their  ceaseless  industry, 
at  the  procreation  of  all  that  beauty. 

How  still,  how  pure,  how  lovely,  this  retreat! 
Sebastian  thought  of  Brian  Dungannan's  words, 
"Have  you  never  dreamed  of  going  away,  hand  in 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  143 

hand  with  some  one,  into-  the  woods  forever?  Every- 
thing is  there.  ..." 

But  beyond  the  tops  of  the  olive-trees  that  filled 
the  slope,  the  plain  rolled  out  its  empty  leagues,  in 
sunny  ambiguity,  toward  Rome.  And  on  the  hori- 
zon, trembling  as  if  between  earth  and  heaven,  ap- 
peared a  long  mist  of  roofs,  and,  above,  one  dome  of 
almost  imperceptible  blue. 

John  Elzevir  said: 

"Do  you  know  those  words  of  Vassari's,  'I  ex- 
perienced how  much  more  profitable  is  sweet  quiet 
than  the  clamor  of  the  piazza  and  the  court.'  Off 
there,  how  different,  eh?" 

"The  great  cities  are  what  they  have  always 
been." 

"And  it's  in  the  city,  hi  what  the  city  finally  pro- 
duces, that  the  downfall  of  nations  has  invariably 
begun.  Still,  we  must  always  have  great  cities. 
Perhaps  their  salvation  lies  in  the  new  spirit  dawning 
over  them?" 

"What  spirit  is  that?" 

"Of  brotherhood.  Of  the  united  labor  of  the 
many  for  the  whole." 

"The  dream  of  Socialism — universal  mediocrity?" 

' '  No .     Universal  normality. ' ' 

"Is  slavery  normal?  What  is  despotism,  if  not 
the  confinement  of  the  individual?" 

"But,  my  friend,  the  weak  must  be  protected." 

"Nature  says  otherwise." 

"Then  you  would  have  men  live  only  to  gratify 
their  old  appetite  for  mastery?" 


144  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"If  they  did,  they  would  be  natural  again." 

"And  what  of  charity,  gentleness,  self-sacrifice, 
that  humanity  has  learned  through  so  much  travail?  " 

"Those  things  have  brought  nothing  but  weak- 
ness." 

The  old  recluse  slowly  shook  his  head,  then  gazed 
at  the  other  with  kindly  curiosity. 

"You  aren't  a  bit  religious?" 

"I've  seen  the  ruins  of  Babylon,  and  Thebes,  and 
Carthage,  and  Athens,  and  Rome." 

"But  the  religion  of  to-day  is  hardly  comparable 
with  the  rest." 

"It's  the  same  in  this — it's  built  on  assertions  that 
can  never  be  proved  by  science  or  logic." 

"It's  built  on  the  satisfaction  that  nothing  but  its 
teachings  can  give  the  soul." 

"Oh,  if  we're  going  to  discuss  the  soul,"  Sebastian 
laughed,  "I  must  leave  the  rest  to  you!" 

The  silence  was  threaded  by  the  hum  of  passing 
bees.  John  Elzevir  said: 

"Indeed,  I'm  discourteous  to  wrangle  with  my 
guest." 

"On  the  contrary,  I'm  the  discourteous  one.  For 
I  see  my  ideas  pain  you." 

"Yes;  I  admit  that.  They  strike  one  like  a  cold 
wind,  and  chill  the  heart.  My  son,  you  are  missing 
so  much!" 

"What  a  man  has  never  known  he  has  never 
missed." 

"There  I  think  you  are  out." 

And,  after  a  while : 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  145 

"Let  us  sit  down  under  the  trees.  I'll  you  tell  a 
story." 

They  seated  themselves  upon  a  bench,  in  the  shade 
of  massed  orange-leaves  and  roses.  While  the  bees 
buzzed  round  them  the  old  man  said: 

"As  a  boy,  I  was  a  mixture  of  spirituality  and 
earthliness — &  youth  like  any  other;  or  almost  any 
other.  I  was  rich,  my  own  master,  with  all  the  world 
before  me.  And  I  plunged  into  the  world,  into  its 
crowded,  splendid  places.  I  was  drawn  toward  that 
great  conflagration  which  hangs  over  the  capitals  of 
nations  as  naturally  as  a  moth  is  drawn  toward  a 
lamp.  Youth  is  so  fearless,  so  sure  of  itself,  and  of 
the  future!  I  didn't  know  that  I  was  one  of  the 
weak,  whom  you  would  wipe  out,  to  give  more 
room  to  those  you  call  the  strong.  .  .  . 

"No  one  told  me  what  was  bound  to  follow.  I 
had  everything  to  learn  for  myself.  I  learned 
through  much  suffering.  Through  repugnance,  re- 
morse, and  fear  of  God's  vengeance,  which  I  still 
expected  was  destined  to  take  place  somewhere  in 
the  remote  future — though  it  was  going  on  even  then. 

"But  there  were  two  natures  hi  me  still,  as  there 
are  in  most  all  of  humanity,  clear  to  the  end.  So  I 
couldn't  escape  from  one  life  into  the  other.  Earth 
was  always  drawing  me  back  from  heaven. 

"I  didn't  know  that  God  doesn't  expect  men  to  be 
too  good.  That  He  doesn't  need  an  act  of  complete 
renunciation  to  be  pleased.  That  He's  satisfied  just 
by  the  intention  of  to-day,  even  though  He  knows 
it's  going  to  be  broken  to-morrow. 


146  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"I  wanted  to  escape  to  Him  completely.  Because 
I  was  too  weak  to  do  so,  I  suffered  terribly.  I  saw, 
at  last,  that  I  couldn't  free  myself.  And  I  fell  to 
wondering  what  influence  outside  myself  could  free 
me? 

"In  mankind,  even  while  we're  striving  to  climb 
upward,  there  clings  to  us  an  ineradicable  material- 
ism. ...  So  I  dreamed  of  a  woman,  of  such  mingled 
spirituality  and  physical  beauty  that,  through  her,  I 
might  effect  a  compromise,  that  would  be  pleasing  to 
Nature,  and  so  to  God. 

"But  I  never  found  her.  Many  others  I  found, 
in  many  places— but  not  that  one.  So  there  is  some- 
thing that  one  man  has  never  known,  and  yet  has 
missed!  .  .  . 

"Has  she  existed?  I've  seen  her  come  to  others. 
I've  learned  that  my  longing  for  her  must  have  been 
the  true  inspiration.  It  wasn't  cowardice  to  desire 
such  a  compromise.  For  it  is  not  only  folly,  but 
even  wrong,  to  try  to  deprive  life  of  its  material  part, 
in  order  to  give  more  play  to  the  spiritual. 

"In  fact,  I've  perceived  lives  round  me  come  to 
their  fulness  only  by  such  means.  Man's  but  half  of 
himself.  Woman's  the  other  half.  That  is  Nature. 
And  through  the  labyrinths  of  chance,  amid  the  chaos 
of  momentary  passions  and  sordid  disillusionments, 
man  is  always  groping  for  that  other  half  of  himself— 
sometimes  searching,  though  he  may  not  know  it,  in 
the  very  mire  of  debauchery,  for  the  inestimable 
jewel.  .  .  .  That  jewel  many  never  find.  But  others 
find  it.  And  in  their  hands  it  becomes  a  talisman, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  147 

to  unlock  all  the  questions  we  need  to  have  answered 
in  this  life.  .  .  . 

"When  one  doesn't  find  the  real  thing,  one  gets 
along  with  makeshifts.  And,  finally,  I  who  couldn't 
find  peace  on  the  bosom  of  that  other  part  of  me, 
was  drawn  into  the  bosom  of  Nature,  that  great 
maternal  force,  of  infinite  tenderness,  which  would 
cure  us  of  so  many  miseries  if  we'd  only  let  her. 

"I  sought  solitude.     And  here  I  am. 

"Of  course,  it  was  an  admission  of  defeat.  I'd 
been  beaten  on  that  swarming  battle-field.  I'd  drawn 
off  with  little  honor.  I  still  envy  those  strong  enough 
to  find  their  victory  there.  But  we  can't  all  be 
strong.  .  .  .  And  indeed,  I  hardly  had  the  strength 
even  to  escape,  till  age  began  to  dull  the  brilliancy  of 
temptation.  Many  saints  are  made  like  that:  but 
few  are  ready  to  confess  it. 

"For  years  I'd  seen  all  the  cities  of  the  world,  and 
the  glory  of  them.  I'd  searched  them  from  top  to 
bottom — from  the  halls  hung  with  riches  to  the 
ignoble  corners  that  are  ashamed  of  sunlight.  Pos- 
sibly, when  I  turned  away  at  last,  I  hoped  that  she 
might  rise  up  from  amid  the  flowers?  But  even  here 
she  didn't  come  to  me.  And  now  I'm  old. 

"Elsewhere?  In  another  youth?  I  think  so. 
For  everything  must  find  its  complement  in  the  end. 
So  I'm  waiting.  And  it  may  be  that  I'm  not  yet  fit 
to  meet  her.  So,  while  waiting,  I'm  preparing  my- 
self for  that  event. 

"Here  I'm  learning  lessons  that  I  could  never  have 
learned  off  there,  in  the  stridence  and  confusion 
which  sets  that  horizon  quivering.  Day  and  night, 


148  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

there  rises  out  of  this  unpolluted  earth  an  ineffable 
perfume  of  wisdom.  Amid  so  much  mute  and  subtle 
progress,  the  heart  must  flower,  too. 

"I'm  still  very  ignorant,  however.  The  older  I 
grow,  the  more  I  glimpse  that  I  shall  never  see  well 
enough  to  impart  to  others.  But  every  day  I  set 
down  what's  been  revealed  to  me — not  through  sci- 
ence, not  through  logic,  but  through  the  voice  of 
Eternity,  as  it  speaks  to  me,  in  the  silence,  by  the  lips 
of  flowers,  the  songs  of  bisects,  and  the  stir  of  that 
life  beneath  the  sod  which  is  never  discouraged,  never 
weary  of  effort  toward  the  sun.  ..." 

In  the  end,  he  said: 

"It's  a  strange  thing  for  me  to  talk  this  way.  But 
somehow  I  was  impelled  to  do  so.  ...  Will  you 
come  and  see  how  my  old-fashioned  blooms  are  get- 
ting on?  .  .  ." 

It  was  late  that  afternoon  when  Sebastian  entered 
Rome.  .  .  . 

As  he  passed  the  Acqua  Felice,  some  one  hailed 
him.  He  saw,  in  a  taxicab,  Ernesto  Sangallo.  Va- 
lises were  piled  up  round  him.  Apparently,  he  was 
bound  for  the  railroad  station.  The  taxicab  halted. 
Sebastian  rode  up  to  it,  with  the  words: 

"Leaving  town? 

"For  my  little  place  in  Piedmont.  I  seem  to  be 
going  stale  down  here.  It's  time  for  a  sniff  of  the 
country." 

"Sorry  to  lose  you." 

"Thanks.  It's  just  occurred  to  me  that  I  may 
not  be  back  before  you  leave  yourself " 

"Oh,  I  shall  hardly  go  for  a  month  or  two." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  149 

Sangallo's  clear  eyes^examined  the  other's  counte- 
nance thoughtfully. 

"Who  knows?  We  all  change  our  minds — some- 
times at  the  shortest  notice.  Still,  I  want  to  leave 
you  my  card.  If  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you, 
don't  hesitate  to  command  me." 

"You're  more  than  kind,"  said  Sebastian,  storing 
the  bit  of  bristol  away  in  his  pocket-book  like  a  man 
who  has  just  received  something  valuable. 

"Nothing!     So  good-by." 

"Au  revoir  would  be  more  propitious." 

"You're  right.  Besides,  we  shall  certainly  meet 
again,  before  very  long." 

Once  more  he  looked  at  Sebastian  carefully,  before 
motioning  to  the  chauffeur  to  proceed. 

"Good  luck!" 

"Good  luck!" 

Sebastian  rode  on  to  the  Grand  Hotel. 

In  the  lobby,  he  met  Prince  Campobasso.  The 
latter  was  bound  for  the  rooms  of  the  Jockey  Club, 
in  the  same  building.  When  Sebastian  invited  him 
into  the  bar,  he  suggested  the  club  apartments  in- 
stead. 

They  entered  a  room  illuminated  by  table-lamps, 
dull-green,  cream-colored  pillars  here  and  there,  the 
walls  covered  with  old  prints  of  famous  race-horses. 
Sitting  down,  they  ordered  whiskey-and-sodas. 

Prince  Campobasso  was  rather  more  self-con- 
tained, more  English,  than  usual.  His  fair,  hand- 
some face,  however,  was  Latin  enough  to  show  that 
beneath  the  mask  lurked  some  unpleasant  thoughts. 


150  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Sebastian  wondered  idly  if,  by  any  chance,  he  could 
have  heard  part  of  the  last  week's  tea-table  gossip 
concerning  Princess  Betty  and  Tito.  For  Rome, 
always  Argus-eyed,  and  furnished,  like  Fama,  with  a 
thousand  tongues,  had  decided  that  Princess  Cam- 
pobasso's  long-awaited  liaison  was  practically  be- 
gun. 

But,  from  behind  a  sofa,  rose  a  pair  of  melancholy 
red  eyes,  which  regarded  them  with  lack-lustre  blank- 
ness.  It  was  Andreas  Romanovitch. 

Sebastian  grinned  at  him. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  the  country." 

"I  was.  But  the  country  is  worse  than  the  city. 
The  country  doesn't  make  one  forget  oneself.  Bigre! 
On  the  contrary!" 

"Come  out  from  behind  that  sofa.  Stop  giving 
that  horrid  imitation  of  the  head  on  the  charger." 

Andreas  picked  himself  up,  advanced,  and  flopped 
down  in  a  neighboring  chair.  As  if  to  defy  his  state 
of  mind,  he  wore  a  greenish  tweed  suit,  tan  shoes  with 
toothpick  toes,  a  cravat  of  canary-yellow,  and  a  green 
silk  pocket-handkerchief.  When  he  had  wagged  his 
forked  beard  up  and  down  for  a  while,  he  confessed  : 

"I've  been  envying  those  horses  on  the  walls. 
They  have  no  consciences.  What's  more,  they're  all 
fortunate  enough  to  be  dead." 

"I  was  talking  this  afternoon  to  a  sirupy  old 
chap  who  has  just  the  remedy  for  your  ailment.  '  A 
woman  of  such  mingled  spirituality  and  physical 
beauty  that  a  compromise  might  be  effected,  pleasing 
to  Nature,  and  so  to  God!" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  151 

And,  after  emptying,  his  whiskey-and-soda  down 
his  throat,  Sebastian  demanded: 

"What  could  be  more  simple?" 

"What  could  be  more  difficult!  Especially,  if  one 
can't  even  look  at  her  any  more,  since  she's  gone 
away!" 

Sebastian  inspected  him  for  a  time  in  perplexity. 

"Who  the  devil  are  you  in  love  with  this  after- 
noon? " 

"Ah,  I'm  not  so  fickle  as  some  desperadoes  of  my 
acquaintance!" 

"Well,  if  you  mean  the  Innocenti " 

" Accidente!  That  creature!  What  do  you  take 
me  for?  I  shall  never  see  her  again!  That  is,  un- 
less I'm  fool  enough  to  drink  champagne  with  my 
dinner  to-night." 

"Then  whom  are  you  talking  about,  if  it's  fair  to 
ask?" 

"Is  it  possible  you  don't  know  she  left  to-day,  to 
catch  the  Asiatic  for  England?" 

Sebastian  felt  in  his  head  a  shock  as  if  from  a 
slight  explosion.  The  room  grew  dark.  Everything 
seemed  whirling  round.  Then,  gradually,  his  sur- 
roundings emerged.  The  faces  of  Andreas  and  Don 
Livio  appeared  as  before.  He  was  sure  his  own 
features  had  not  changed. 

After  stealthily  clearing  his  throat,  he  remarked: 

"How  careful  our  Andreas  is  to  follow  the  fashion, 
even  in  his  sentimental  exertions!" 

Rising,  he  turned  to  Prince  Campobasso. 

"Thanks  for  the  life-saver.  ..."    To  the  other: 


152  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"See  you  later,  lokanaan.  .  .  ." 

"Why,  we've  just  sat  down!" 

"I've  been  ricling  all  day.  I  must  get  to  a  tub. 
Till  to-night,  somewhere,  perhaps?  ..." 

He  went  out,  and  gained  his  own  apartment. 

Disnisius  was  there,  fitting  studs  into  an  evening 
shirt.  Sebastian  demanded: 

"How  long  do  you  need  to  pack?" 

The  man  started,  looked  at  his  master's  face,  then 
answered,  quickly: 

"An  hour  and  a  half." 

"Get  at  it." 

He  tore  off  his  riding-clothes.  Disnisius,  while 
running  to  and  fro,  kept  sending  furtive  glances  at 
him.  At  last: 

"Shall  I  put  the  revolvers  in  the  travelling-bags?" 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Have  you  gone 
crazy?  " 

"Pardon,  Excellency.  A  lapse  of  the  mind.  .  .  . 
It  must  be  in  the  air  to-day.  Something  that  keeps 
reminding  me  of  old  times.  ..." 


CHAPTER  IX 

AT  half-past  ten  that  night,  Sebastian  Maure 
reached  Naples.  At  half-past  twelve,  from  the  deck 
of  an  Italian  steam-ship,  he  saw  the  harbor-lights 
dwindle  to  the  north.  Next  afternoon,  there  gath- 
ered in  the  south,  cloudlike  on  the  horizon,  the  tawny 
hills  of  Sicily.  That  evening  he  landed  hi  Palermo. 

The  Asiatic  was  scheduled  to  call  there  next  day. 

He  descended  at  the  Villa  Igeia,  turned  in,  and 
again  lay  awake  all  night.  The  sun  was  shining,  and 
he  was  dozing  at  last,  when  Disnisius  came  to  tell 
him  the  ship  had  been  sighted.  At  once  he  got  up. 

The  last  forty  hours  had  been  a  sort  of  nightmare. 
Sleeplessness,  wild  plans  invented  only  to  be  baffled 
by  common-sense,  rage  that  she  was  escaping  so 
easily,  had  worn  him  out.  His  constitution  was  no 
longer  adaptable  to  this  kind  of  strain.  He  was 
amazed  to  find  himself,  at  moments,  not  only  ex- 
hausted, but  almost  witless.  He  had  told  himself 
over  and  over  that  everything  depended  upon  this 
day:  yet  now  he  was  hi  no  condition  to  meet  such  a 
crisis.  It  was  his  first  really  poignant  experience 
with  a  revengeful  Nature. 

He  went  down  into  the  city.  The  Maqueda  was 
crowded  already  with  its  beggars,  touts,  and  impecu- 
nious dandies.  The  shops  displayed  their  pinch- 
beck wares.  Church-doors  stood  open.  At  tables 
on  the  sidewalk,  vacuous-looking  old  fellows  were 

153 


154  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

drinking  their  coffee.  He  stared  at  this  orderly 
scene  as  if  it  were  part  of  a  dream.  Why  was  he 
here?  What  incredible  fall  of  luck  could  he  be 
trusting  in? 

Perhaps  she  would  not  even  come  ashore! 

He  drove  to  the  harbor.  Some  distance  out,  the 
Asiatic,  at  anchor,  towered  amid  scows  piled  high 
with  lemon-crates.  Round  the  ladder  row-boats 
clustered.  Into  them  ladies  were  descending. 

He  entered  a  shabby  cafe  opposite  the  wharf,  and 
took  a  seat  in  the  shadows.  There  he  waited,  hope- 
less already,  yet  determined  to  stay,  till  the  very  last 
moment,  in  the  path  of  chance.  The  habitues  of  the 
place  were  fascinated  by  this  big,  saturnine  foreigner, 
richly  clad,  with  a  scarf-pin  worth  a  year's  wages, 
who  remained  hour  after  hour  in  the  same  attitude, 
staring  out  to  sea.  At  last,  the  passengers  who  had 
landed,  and  set  out  gayly,  for  their  day's  excursion, 
began  to  return  and  re-embark.  He  had  sat  there 
from  nine  till  six.  He  told  a  waiter  to  make  sure  of 
the  Asiatic's  sailing-time. 

"  Signore,  she  is  due  to  leave  this  minute.  .  .  ." 

He  returned  to  the  Villa  Igeia.  Disnisius  had  laid 
out  his  evening-clothes.  He  bathed  and  changed 
mechanically.  Could  it  be  possible  that  this  was  the 
end? 

But  suppose  she  were  not  on  board  the  Asiatic 
after  all! 

He  snatched  up  hat  and  overcoat,  went  downstairs, 
hailed  a  cab,  regained  the  water-front.  The  ship  was 
still  at  anchor.  He  called  a  boatman. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  155 

"What's  keeping  her?." 

"The  lemons,  Excellency.  For  some  reason,  they 
take  a  devil  of  a  while  to  load,  do  lemons!  But  now 
the  last  scow  is  almost  empty." 

"  Can  you  make  it?  " 

"Eh,  the  Madonna  has  that  in  her  pocket!  Let 
us  try." 

They  reached  the  Asiatic's  ladder  just  as  sailors 
were  preparing  to  raise  it. 

He  found  himself  on  the  deck.  Two  young  ship's 
officers  were  peering  down  into  the  hold,  where  the 
steam-cranes  were  lowering  the  last  crates  out  of 
sight.  But  a  boatswain  approached  him  with  a  ques- 
tioning look.  Sebastian  nodded  good-evening,  asked 
if  dinner  was  on,  and  went  into  the  smoke-room. 
It  was  deserted.  A  steward  brought  him  a  cocktail. 

"A  nice  day,  sir.     Been  ashore,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

"A  dirty  town,  sir.  No  wonder  you're  not  quite 
ready  for  dinner,  sir,  if  I  may  take  the  liberty." 

"Bring  me  a  passenger  list." 

Her  name  was  the  first  he  saw. 

The  ship  was  on  the  point  of  starting.  Still  he 
remained.  A  force  outside  himself  seemed  to  be 
keeping  him  here.  He  began  to  feel  the  relief  of  a 
miraculous  reprieve.  She  was  not  leaving  him!  It 
was  not  finished !  Even  if  she  shut  herself  up  in  her 
cabin  as  soon  as  aware  of  his  presence,  in  a  way  they 
would  still  be  together  a  little  while  longer.  .  .  . 

His  body  gradually  relaxed.  The  abnormal  ten- 
sion of  his  nerves  abated.  He  ordered  another  cock- 


156  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

tail.  Five  minutes  later  he  realized,  with  drowsy 
satisfaction,  that  the  Asiatic  had  put  to  sea.  .  .  . 

Twilight  fell  rapidly.  Dinner  must  be  nearly  over? 
He  went  out  and  climbed  a  staircase  to  the  boat-deck. 

The  breeze  was  soft  and  warm,  the  dim  sea  calm. 
In  the  black  distance,  Palermo  glittered  under  a  pale- 
yellow  nimbus.  And  the  great  ship,  trembling  all 
over,  was  separating  him,  at  the  same  time,  from  his 
hopelessness. 

"This  isn't  for  nothing,  this  impulse!" 

No  one  came  near  the  bench  on  which  he  had 
stretched  himself.  No  one,  in  fact,  could  be  aware 
that  an  extra  passenger  was  aboard.  He  ought  to 
go  down  soon,  however,  and  see  about  a  cabin.  .  .  . 
The  best  ones  were  sure  to  be  taken.  .  .  .  The  bar- 
ber would  probably  have  nothing  to  sell  him  but  deck 
shoes  and  collars.  .  .  .  He  was  going  to  miss  Dis- 
nisius.  .  .  . 

All  this  bothered  him  so  little  that  he  fell  asleep 
while  thinking  of  it. 

Six  bells  awoke  him.  Decidedly,  a  bed  would  be 
more  comfortable!  But  he  thought  it  advisable, 
before  visiting  the  office,  to  explore  his  pocket-book. 
The  first  thing  he  chanced  on  was  Sangallo's  visiting- 
card. 

After  a  time,  smiling  grimly,  he  scribbled  across 
the  back  of  it: 

//  you're  still  about,  you  might  like  to  hear  the  absurd 
adventure  that  makes  us  shipmates.  Could  you  find  your 
•way  to  the  port  side  of  the  boat-deck?  I'll  try  to  excuse  my- 
self, there,  for  putting  you  to  the  trouble. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  157 

A  sailor  was  passing,  v  Sebastian  Maure  instructed 
him  to  send  the  card  below. 

And  after  a  while  he  saw  her  approaching  through 
the  shadows. 

She  wore  a  fragile  dress  of  flower-sprinkled  gauze 
laid  over  amber  satin.  Her  neck  was  bare,  but  round 
one  wrist  she  had  twisted  a  chain  of  diamonds. 
From  her  blonde  tresses  to  her  golden  slippers  she 
was  so  fair  a  thing,  so  stored  with  radiance  waiting 
for  the  chance  to  show  forth  all x  dazzling,  that  in  the 
very  obscurity  of  the  boat-deck  she  appeared  to  shine 
with  a  mysterious  effulgence. 

To  him  she  seemed,  after  all  those  hours  of  anxiety 
and  despair,  more  beautiful,  more  precious,  more 
necessary  than  ever  before.  He  could  not  move  or 
speak,  while  contemplating  this  inestimable  treasure 
of  the  flesh,  which  he  desired  with  all  the  violence  of 
his  nature. 

It  was  she  who,  after  a  moment  of  amazement, 
ended  the  silence.  Her  voice  was  strange: 

"Where  is  Signore  Sangallo?" 

"Sangallo!    Is  he  aboard,  too?" 

"I  have  his  card " 

She  held  it  up.    He  took  it  out  of  her  hand. 

"Permit  me." 

In  the  dim  light,  he  made  a  pretence  of  examining  it. 

"What  a  strange  thing!  I  suppose  I  can  never 
persuade  you  this  wasn't  intentional.  .  .  ." 

After  a  silence,  she  faltered: 

"You  wrote  that?" 

"  Certainly." 


158  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"  And  counted  on  my  coming  here,  to  talk  to  you?  " 

"Ihoped- 

"You  expect  me  to  believe  this!" 

"You  could  come  for  Sangallo." 

"It's  always  safe  to  come  to  Sangallo.  He  is  a 
friend." 

"And  must  I  still  be  an  enemy?" 

She  made  no  reply.    He  went  on: 

"Must  you  always  think  of  me  so?  Don't  you 
realize  that  one  owes  to  the  most  unwelcome  love 
something  better  than  utter  cruelty?  With  all  the 
beauty  that  covers  you  and  fills  you,  how  is  there 
room  in  you  for  this  inhumanity?  " 

"You  can  hardly  realize  what  you're  saying.  I'm 
engaged  to  marry  Lieutenant  Pamfort " 

"He's  not  that  any  longer.  He's  Lord  Lemster 
now." 

"If  you  prefer.  ..."  She  clenched  her  hands, 
then  shot  forth  at  him: 

"It  seems  incredible  that  I  should  have  to  remind 
you  of  it!  Must  I  go  still  farther?  Must  I  tell  you 
in  so  many  words  other  reasons  why  I've  always 
avoided  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  heavily,  without  replying.  She 
turned  to  go.  But  he  put  out  his  hand. 

"One  moment.  Hear  me  to-night.  I'll  promise 
never  to  trouble  you  again." 

"I  think  we've  said  enough  to  each  other  already 
to  last  forever." 

"Enough!  Our  lives  won't  be  long  enough  for  all 
I  could  say  to  you!" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  159 

He  came  a  step  nearer.  Her  pride  prevented  her 
from  retreating.  She  heard  him  saying: 

"Up  there,  when  I  learned  you  were  gone,  it 
seemed  that  everything  vital  in  me  had  escaped  with 
you.  I  felt  that  my  very  life  had  been  torn  from  me. 
That  I  must  follow  after,  and  get  it  back.  Or  else, 
die  on  my  feet,  like  a  man  whose  heart  has  been  torn 
out,  and  who  makes  one  last  movement,  as  if  to 
clutch  it  back  into  his  breast,  and  go  on  living.  I 
came  here  in  a  sort  of  delirium,  rushing  through 
shadows,  blinded  by  despair,  but  struggling  on  to- 
ward the  light  that  was  vanishing  before  me,  that 
wouldn't  stay,  that  another  hour  was  going  to  ex- 
tinguish forever.  ...  I  threw  away  the  last  rem- 
nant of  my  reason  for  one  more  sight  of  you,  for  one 
more  sound  of  your  voice,  for  one  more  glimpse  of 
what  I  couldn't  have.  ..." 

He  had  begun  with  phrases;  he  ended  with  his  voice 
shaking,  his  body  trembling,  his  whole  being  wracked 
by  the  realization  that  it  was  the  truth.  She,  for 
her  part,  had  not  moved  while  his  lips  poured  out 
those  words  with  all  the  flexibility  and  fire  of  youth. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  in  wonder.  Despite  her- 
self, she  was  fascinated  by  this  volcanic  passion,  the 
like  of  which  she  had  never  perceived  before,  which 
she  had  caused. 

With  a  great  effort,  he  recovered  himself.  He 
knew  when  to  change  his  tone.  In  a  different  voice, 
he  said: 

"But  just  now,  when  I  saw  you  coming  through 
the  darkness,  a  strange  peace  invaded  me.  All  my 
sufferings  were  worth  that  moment.  I  saw  you 


160  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

again.  I  heard  you  speak.  I  told  you  once  more 
what  you'd  been  to  me,  and  always  would  be.  Even 
the  hopelessness  of  this  hour  is  touched  by  happiness. 
Even  your  antipathy  contains  its  sweetness,  because 
your  lips  express  it.  And  now,  every  minute  I  hold 
you  here  is  just  another  ray  to  light  the  future.  .  .  . 
Those  moments!  How  few  of  them  there  have  been! 
How  full  of  your  enmity!  And  yet,  how  precious! 
They're  all  I  have.  They're  going  to  be  my  riches. 
Is  it  any  wonder  I  want  one  more  to  hoard?" 

His  deep  voice  was  vibrant  with  the  emotion  of  a 
man  who  could  express  admirably,  at  the  same  time, 
strength  and  pathos.  But  he  knew  that  silence  was 
dangerous  to  illusion.  He  went  on: 

"You  have  your  idea  of  love.  You're  sure  that 
idea's  not  mine.  You  have  your  ideal  of  devotion. 
You  credit  me  with  no  ideals  at  all.  But  what  love, 
in  the  whole  world,  could  be  stronger  than  this  one, 
that's  brought  me  here,  stripped  of  all  sanity,  for  a 
look  of  scorn,  a  word  of  anger,  a  memory  of  un- 
changed hostility?  .  .  . 

"No;  there's  only  one  kind  of  love — the  love  of  a 
man  for  a  woman.  But  it  has  many  degrees  of 
strength  and  frankness.  And  sometimes  the  clear 
light  of  truth  blinds  unaccustomed  eyes.  .  .  . 

"My  great  crime  in  life  has  always  been  that  I've 
revealed  myself.  Yet  if  I'd  been  ever  so  subtle,  I 
couldn't  have  disguised  this.  It  was  an  avalanche 
that  your  mere  approach  set  moving.  ...  But  the 
one  who  caused  it  might  feel  without  shame  a  little 
pity  on  account  of  it." 

Her  pulse  beat  fast.     Despite  herself,   she  was 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  161 

stirred  throughout.  Her  femininity  was  unable  to 
ignore  such  homage. 

She  was  still  conscious  of  the  countless  detriments 
that  made  him  hateful  to  her.  She  was  still,  perhaps, 
but  half  convinced  of  his  full  sincerity.  Yet  she  felt 
her  judgment,  and  even  her  repugnance,  weakened 
by  those  accents  thrilling  with  sadness  and  desire,  by 
that  face  transformed  in  the  starlight,  and  by  the 
influence  of  the  place  and  the  hour — the  illimitable 
poetry  of  the  heavens,  the  mystery  of  the  sea.  The 
sea!  Its  eternal  savor  of  freedom,  of  lawlessness,  of 
Nature!  Maybe  it  was  that  which,  penetrating  her 
heart,  made  her  more  nearly  understand  it  all.  There 
came  to  her  a  shock  of  illogical  compunction.  She 
made  a  quick  gesture  of  distress.  The  half-inarticu- 
late cry  escaped  her: 

"Oh,  but  why!  .  .  ." 

"The  world  is  made  up  of  riddles  like  that,"  he 
answered. 

But  his  heart  leaped.  He  saw  that  for  the  mo- 
ment he  had  disarmed  her.  To-morrow,  daylight 
would  bring  back  her  clear  perception,  the  old  dis- 
trust. Thereafter,  every  hour  would  bear  her  nearer 
to  the  influence  of  the  other.  These  advantages,  of 
surprise  and  strangeness,  of  eloquence  and  nature, 
would  never  reoccur  for  him  in  like  combination. 
It  was  the  hour  to  risk  everything. 

While  groping  for  the  means,  he  called  to  his  aid 
the  seductiveness  of  their  surroundings.  Pointing 
into  the  darkness,  southward: 

"  See  how  the  very  elements  combine  for  that  eter- 


162  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

nal  deception!  This  breeze,  full  of  soft  odors,  brings 
a  promise  of  felicity.  It  comes  from  Africa,  from 
regions  vivid  with  color,  dissolved  in  sunshine,  or,  in 
the  moonlight,  of  an  enchantment  to  make  real  that 
old  dream  of  Aphrodite,  stooping  from  the  heavens, 
wrapped  in  stars,  to  spread  the  perfume  of  her  breath 
to  men.  It  comes  to  us  across  her  waves,  across  the 
hills  of  Sicily — that  land  where  men  and  women,  and 
the  very  rocks,  are  always  burning  from  their  adja- 
cency to  her.  Roses  are  in  it,  black  roses  against 
the  stars,  their  beauty  half  blotting  out  that  far- 
off  splendor,  yet  letting  through  their  petals  such 
glimpses  of  heaven  as  one  could  never  catch,  if  they 
weren't  trembling  between.  '  Come  back/  it  whis- 
pers. '  Come  back  to  the  simplicity  of  what  I  offer. 
To  what  springs  up,  in  its  full  flower,  nowhere  else  so 
swiftly  and  magnificently.  To  what's  more  precious 
here,  in  its  completeness,  than  all  the  world!  .•..".' 
But  the  ship  takes  us  on.  The  sea  widens.  And 
soon  that  breeze  will  fall  behind,  to  give  place  to 
northern  winds,  with  different  messages.  .  .  .  That's 
life.  One  hears  a  call,  and  one  is  borne  away." 

He  turned  to  lean  on  the  rail  that  ran  along  the 
deck,  between  the  life-boats,  as  a  protection  against 
the  edge. 

Forty  feet  below,  the  black  water,  slipping  rapidly 
astern,  was  full  of  phosphorescent  light.  The  lu- 
minous particles  gathered  swiftly  from  ribbons  into 
tangled  knots.  They  spread  into  whirling  patches 
of  incessantly  contorted  outline.  They  expanded 
suddenly  to  fill  the  waves  with  their  unearthly  sheen. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  163 

Then  they  parted  in  fragments,  shredded  to  ribbons 
again,  disappeared  like  serpents  into  the  depths. 
This  play  of  light  engrossed  him,  even  at  such  a 
moment.  In  it  he  seemed  to  find  some  cryptic  mes- 
sage, the  solution  of  all  dilemmas,  that  dissolved 
before  he  could  decipher  it. 

In  a  low  voice,  he  said: 

"  Come  and  see  if  you  can  read  what  the  water  is 
trying  to  tell  me." 

Wondering  at  this  new  tone,  after  a  moment  of 
hesitation  she  approached  the  side.  Not  too  near 
him — in  the  interval  between  the  railing  and  the  ad- 
jacent life-boat — she  looked  down  at  the  phospho- 


rescence. 
u 


See  how  it  struggles  to  make  its  meaning  clear, 
before  it's  whipped  away.  It  springs  up  from  noth- 
ingness. It  strives  to  be  united  with  itself.  Then, 
separated,  at  the  moment  of  contact,  from  its  desire, 
it  plunges  back  into  the  darkness.  The  black  void 
that  produced  it  quenches  it.  ...  Is  that  the  an- 
swer?" 

The  strangeness  of  the  scene,  the  solitude,  the  fer- 
vor of  his  voice,  made  her  forget  him  as  she  had 
known  him  heretofore.  Nothing  seemed  strange  to 
her,  any  longer,  on  this  strange  night. 

Then,  all  at  once,  from  the  mast-head,  a  ship's  bell 
clanged.  Reality,  with  that  sound,  pierced  illusion 
through  and  through.  She  remembered  where  she 
was,  and  where  she  was  going.  She  found  herself. 
And,  at  that  instant,  an  animosity  more  bitter  than 
ever  before  sprang  up  in  her,  toward  this  man  who 


PROPERTY 


1 64  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

had  made  her  feel  compassion  for  perversity,  and 
tenderness  for  duplicity.  She  uttered  a  cold  little 
laugh: 

"When  you  talk  like  that,  you  give  me  grave 
doubts  that  it  isn't  all  melodrama!" 

He  did  not  move.  But  he  knew  at  once  that 
everything  he  had  said  had  gone  for  nothing. 

Abruptly,  in  the  midst  of  the  night,  shone  forth  a 
tiny  mellow  flame,  motionless,  perhaps  half  a  mile 
away,  on  the  calm  sea. 

"A  light,"  she  said,  in  an  ordinary  tone.  He  sup- 
pressed his  chagrin,  while  answering: 

"A  fishing-boat.  There  are  islands  to  the  south. 
Desolate,  half-barbarous  spots,  far  off  from  land, 
that  civilization  has  no  more  than  touched.  But 
who  knows  if  happiness  may  not  be  there  for 
some?  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  short,  dazed  by  the  enormity  of  a 
thought.  He  looked  down,  blankly,  at  the  whirling 
phosphorus.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  for  a  mo- 
ment all  those  luminous  intricacies  stayed  motionless, 
to  make  him  read  their  message  aright.  Then  they 
parted.  And  hi  their  midst  yawned  blackness — as 
if  something  had  plunged  through  them,  into  the 
depths. 

In  an  instant,  he  had  calculated  the  distance  of  the 
fishing-boat,  the  speed  of  the  ship,  the  peril  of  the 
propellers,  his  probable  endurance.  Then  he  re- 
coiled, while  asking  himself,  "Am  I  insane,  indeed?" 
But  the  fatality  of  all  the  day's  coincidences  sprang 
forth  in  his  mind  like  a  completed  fabric.  The  se- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  165 

crecy  of  his  presence  on  the  ship!  The  loneliness  of 
the  boat-deck!  The  late  hour,  when  the  lower  decks 
were  bound  to  be  deserted!  The  darkness,  that  en- 
shrouded everything! 

And  this  girl  beside  him,  who,  to-morrow,  would 
pass  out  of  his  life  forever,  into  another's  arms! 

Still,  his  body  grew  tense,  bracing  itself  against 
this  impulse,  against  a  host  of  suggestions,  subtle  and 
yet  tremendous,  which  had  come  to  him  through 
those  feverish  weeks  up  there  in  Rome,  against 
something  that  loomed  larger,  that  became  more  im- 
perious, every  moment — the  invisible,  vast  force  of 
Necessity. 

"Death !     Sure  death,  in  the  sea  or  in  the  screws ! " 

But  a  voice  within  him  whispered  in  reply: 

"All  the  same,  there's  a  chance.  And  if  we  go,  we 
go  together." 

"But  afterward?" 

"He  who  overcomes  the  present  conquers  the 
future." 

And  it  no  longer  seemed  strange  to  him.  It 
seemed  the  natural  thing  to  do. 

Nevertheless,  to  the  most  reckless  and  ruthless 
spirits  comes  a  final  hesitation,  when  all  the  inhibi- 
tions of  the  ages  combine  in  one  last  effort  to  restrain 
the  irrevocable  deed. 

The  little  yellow  light  drew  nearer.  It  hovered 
opposite  his  eyes.  It  began  to  fall  astern. 

He  realized  that  he  had  buttoned  his  dinner- 
jacket  automatically,  and  slipped  his  feet  out  of  his 
pumps. 


1 66  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

He  turned  toward  her.  She  was  standing  in  the 
gap  between  the  end  of  the  railing  and  the  life-boat. 
Gazing  out  at  that  distant  spark,  she  seemed  oblivi- 
ous to  the  menace  of  those  thoughts.  How  beautiful 
she  was — even  when  her  eyes  met  his,  and  read  in 
them,  at  last,  the  revelation  of  his  true  self! 

With  a  convulsive  movement,  she  tried  to  spring 
aside.  But  the  life-boat  penned  her  in.  Behind  her 
lay  the  naked  edge.  Her  hands  flew  to  her  breast. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of!" 

"Will  you  give  up  that  man?" 

"Let  me  by!" 

"Will  you  belong  to  me?" 

"Shall  I  have  to  call  for  help?" 

For  a  fleeting  second  he  marvelled  at  her  clear 
voice,  her  level  gaze,  her  splendid  bravery.  But  her 
courage  made  her  the  more  precious.  And  her  defi- 
ance sent  the  last  of  his  compunction  flying. 

He  reached  forward.  A  moment's  struggle,  tense 
and  silent.  He  put  out  his  strength,  caught  her  in 
his  arms,  and  poised  on  the  brink.  At  once  she 
ceased  to  move. 

"Death!"  she  gasped. 

"Death  or  life — who  knows!" 

With  his  burden  he  leaped  forth  into  space. 

The  sea  engulfed  them.  White  fire  wrapped  them 
round,  then  was  quenched  by  the  black  depths.  The 
waters  divided  in  contention  for  their  bodies.  Two 
forces  tore  at  them,  one  to  drag  them  down  forever, 
the  other  to  snatch  them  back  to  air.  Then  a  new 
power  got  them  in  its  grasp,  the  suction  of  the  ship. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  167 

He  imagined  the  thunder  of  the  screws,  the  remorse- 
less pull,  a  vortex  of  foam  and  blood.  .  .  . 

At  least,  they  should  breathe  again  before  the  end! 

Gripping  that  priceless  burden  more  firmly  to  his 
breast,  he  clove,  with  great  strokes,  out  and  up- 
ward. The  flood  parted.  The  air  rushed  into  his 
throat. 

About  him  seethed  a  gleaming  froth.  Overhead,  a 
vast  bulk  blotted  out  the  stars.  The  stern  towered 
over  him.  They  were  in  the  wake. 

Suddenly,  that  monstrous  silhouette  sank  out  of 
the  heavens.  Against  the  firmament,  the  super- 
structure, the  funnels,  and  the  masts  took  new  per- 
spectives, and,  while  changing,  were  absorbed  into 
the  night.  The  lights  only  remained  visible.  They 
merged  rapidly  into  a  closer  constellation,  dwindled, 
and  grew  dim.  The  ship  was  already  far  away. 

And  there  remained  the  open  sea.  .  .  . 

He  looked  down  at  her  face  against  his  shoulder. 
Her  hair  streamed  back  from  her  pale  brow.  Her 
eyes  were  closed,  her  lips  half  parted.  Her  body  was 
a  dead  weight.  Her  arms  hung  down  limply:  the 
water  moved  them  to  and  fro.  .  .  . 

The  commotion  of  the  wake  subsided.  The  sea 
resumed  its  calmness.  Almost  exhausted,  he  strove 
to  discern  the  little  yellow  beacon  he  had  counted  on. 

It  was  invisible. 

Even  the  Asiatic's  mast-head  lights  had  mingled 
with  the  stars.  The  sea  was  empty,  then?  This  was 
the  end? 

"At  any  rate,  together!" 

On  his  back,  with  her  weight  across  his  body,  he 


1 68  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

calculated  the  time  he  could  keep  up.  And  pres- 
ently, when  he  had  got  back  some  of  his  breath,  he 
sent  forth,  on  the  still  air,  the  call: 

"Aiuto— help!" 

He  waited.    Then,  again : 

"Aiuto!    Aiuto!" 

Silence.     Even  she  did  not  stir.  .  .  . 

But  he  would  keep  on  moving  so  till  lassitude  be- 
came complete.  Then,  quite  gently,  they  would  sink 
together.  .  .  . 

" Aiuto!    Aiuto!    Aiuto!" 

Across  the  water,  clearly,  a  harsh  voice : 

"Ma  chi  c  'e— who's  that!" 

And  the  little  yellow  light  sent  out  its  gleam,  a 
hundred  yards  away. 

It  was  the  fishing-boat,  turning,  with  a  sharp  rattle 
of  its  tackle,  and  bearing  down  on  them.  He  saw 
the  lateen-sail,  the  foot  of  a  mast  against  the  lantern- 
light,  a  human  figure  scrambling  on  all  fours  toward 
the  bow.  Over  the  gunwale  a  head  leaned  out.  A 
youth  ejaculated: 

"Cap peri!    Two  in  the  sea!    One  a  woman!" 

From  the  shadow  of  the  sail,  a  barking  voice: 

"A  siren!    Sheer  off!" 

"There's  a  man,  too." 

"Then  she's  caught  him!" 

"No.    He's  holding  her  up.  .  .  ." 

The  boat  glided  nearer.  But  the  barking  voice 
broke  forth  again,  almost  hysterically: 

"Sheer  off,  I  say!  Evil  will  come  of  this!  Steer 
away,  Ilario!" 

Sebastian  let  his  voice  ring  out: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  169 

"Ilario,  when  I  get  into  your  boat,  I'll  teach  your 
friend  good  manners!" 

A  third  voice,  from  the  stern,  phlegmatic,  rusty: 

"Ah.    It's  a  Signuri." 

They  spoke  a  dialect  that  resembled  Sicilian,  but 
rougher,  and  to  Sebastian  almost  unintelligible. 

The  sail  flapped  limp.  The  boat  came  alongside  of 
them.  The  youth  in  the  bow  reached  down,  and 
grasped  Sebastian's  hand. 

"Besides,"  he  remarked,  "the  woman's  dead." 

He  was  small,  with  a  mop  of  black  hair  dangling 
in  his  gleaming  eyes,  and  bare  to  the  waist.  Another 
joined  him  reluctantly — a  wild-looking  creature, 
blackish,  long-faced,  with  the  features  of  an  Arab, 
half  naked  also,  and  very  thin.  Together  they  tried 
to  drag  the  two  bodies  into  the  boat. 

"Ilario!" 

A  figure  left  the  rudder-pole.  There  advanced 
into  the  light  an  old  withered  fellow  clad  in  canvas 
drawers  and  a  dilapidated  waistcoat,  his  face  cov- 
ered with  white  stubble,  silver  rings  in  his  ears.  At 
last,  Sebastian  and  his  burden  were  drawn  aboard. 

They  laid  her  on  the  planks  that  ran  along  the 
bottom,  over  the  ribs.  Sebastian  knelt  beside  her. 
What  pallor !  What  immobility !  Lifting  one  white, 
nerveless  arm,  he  groped  her  pulse.  ...  It  was  beat- 
ing very  faintly. 

"Have  you  wine?" 

"Eh!    Is  that  likely!" 

"As  for  that,"  growled  the  youth,  contemptu- 
ously, "what  use  is  wine  to  the  drowned?" 


170  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"She  is  not  drowned.    She  has  fainted." 

Without  reply,  the  three  resumed  their  places. 

When  finally  her  eyes  opened,  he  settled  her 
against  the  mast,  with  wadded  coats  behind  her. 
Among  the  nets  he  found  a  ragged  piece  of  sail-cloth, 
with  which  he  covered  her  sodden  dress  of  flowered 
gauze  and  satin.  She  scarcely  moved.  On  her  wan 
face,  still  clouded  by  faintness,  was  growing  an  ex- 
pression of  vague  horror.  He  turned  away. 

It  was  a  very  little  boat,  rough-hewn,  without  a 
deck.  Fore  and  aft,  penned  in  by  boards,  two  masses 
of  dying  fish  gleamed  in  the  starlight,  slipping  from 
side  to  side  at  the  slightest  movement  of  the  keel. 
With  its  broad  lateen-sail  the  rude  craft  made  good 
speed,  however,  in  that  languorous  breeze. 

Where  was  it  bound? 

He  did  not  ask.  His  rescuers  did  not  question 
him. 

One,  the  youngest,  lay  down  again,  and  pretended 
to  fall  asleep.  The  old  man  remained  at  the  helm, 
squatting  on  his  bare  heels,  scratching  his  bristles. 
The  blackish  fellow,  perched  on  a  cross-joist,  regarded 
the  luminous  ripples  that  spread  out  from  the  bow. 
In  the  impassiveness  of  those  three  wild-looking 
creatures  there  was  something  of  the  hostility  and 
reserve  of  brutes. 

Hours  passed.  The  breeze  freshened.  On  the 
left,  the  sky  began  to  pale.  Soon  it  turned  green — 
then,  rapidly,  a  raw,  malignant  red.  The  rim  of  the 
sun  pushed  up,  and  everything  was  golden. 

Far  ahead,  like  a  ruddy  jewel  in  a  radiant  void, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  171 

flashed  forth  a  tiny  pointof  land.  No  coast  appeared 
behind  it,  or,  indeed,  at  any  other  point.  It  was  a 
solitary  island. 

Sebastian  broke  the  silence. 

"We  land  there?" 

The  blackish  fellow  turned  this  question  over  hi  his 
mind,  spat  into  the  water,  and  finally  nodded. 

"What's  the  name  of  that  place?" 

At  length,  the  answer  came,  grudgingly: 

"Turrigianti." 

"You  mean  Torregiante?" 

"I  mean  Turrigianti." 

The  old  man  at  the  helm  cleared  his  throat.  He 
volunteered,  almost  politely: 

"  It  also  has  another  name.  An  old  name.  From 
the  ancients." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"L'lsliladaVita." 

"The  Isle  of  Life.  .  .  ." 

In  the  dawn,  they  drew  on  steadily  toward  that 
destination.  •  .1 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  the  hush  of  that  calm  sunrise,  the  fishing-boat, 
with  Sebastian  and  Ghirlaine  on  board,  drew  near  to 
Torregiante. 

Out  of  the  sea  the  cliffs  rose  in  towering  perpen- 
dicular. Neither  at  their  base,  nor  on  their  summits, 
was  there  an  evidence  of  life.  Gigantic  ramparts  set 
against  the  north,  they  showed  a  blind  front,  repel- 
lent, violent. 

But  the  boat,  tacking  westward,  began  to  round 
the  island. 

There  came  in  sight  some  caves.  These  the  sea 
penetrated  with  a  flash  of  foam  that  was  extinguished 
suddenly  by  the  interior  gloom.  Then  the  western 
headland,  higher  than  all  the  rest  of  those  high  battle- 
ments, shouldered  up.  On  it,  amid  the  tops  of  trees, 
appeared  at  last  a  yellow  wall — a  solitary  habitation. 

Sebastian  Maure  addressed  the  ancient  at  the 
helm. 

"Who  lives  there?" 

The  same  half-hostile  reluctance  preceded  the 
reply: 

"No  one."  But  the  fisherman's  rheumy  eyes, 
sending  forth  a  smothered  flash,  seemed  to  belie  his 
words. 

"Why  not?" 

173 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  173 

After  a  while:  % 

"Because  it  is  too  close  to  the  Old  Ones." 

"You  mean  it's  haunted?" 

The  old  man,  by  way  of  answer,  slowly  raised  his 
chin,  with  an  inscrutable  fixed  smile  that  was  no 
smile  at  all.  ... 

This  headland  passed,  the  boat  turned  in  toward 
land.  The  south  side  of  the  island  came  in  view. 

From  the  naked  heights,  a  natural  amphitheatre 
descended  at  a  gentle  slope.  Its  upper  half  was 
strewn  with  wind- warped  trees.  Lower  down,  it  was 
piebald  with  little  cultivated  patches.  At  its  foot, 
a  miserable  village  huddled  round  the  rim  of  a  small, 
semicircular  beach. 

Of  this  nook  the  headland  just  rounded  formed  the 
western  bulwark,  while  to  the  east  another  promon- 
tory, low,  bare,  surmounted  by  a  rough  bell-tower, 
curved  out  to  complete  the  crescent  of  the  harbor. 
But  it  was  a  harbor  in  miniature.  The  nearer  they 
approached  it,  the  more  emphatic  grew  its  pettiness 
and  squalor. 

The  houses,  straggling  along  the  beach,  were  all 
alike  in  meanness  and  decay.  Plaster  walls,  that 
had  once  been  white,  sky-blue,  or  pink,  were  fading 
to  a  monochrome  of  yellowish  drab,  relieved  only  by 
broad  blotches.  Flat-roofed,  all  taller  than  wide,  all 
showing  arched  tunnel-doorways  and  loggias,  or 
open  galleries,  with  rounded  tops  like  alcoves,  they 
flaunted  from  their  fronts  a  wealth  of  drying  rags,  as 
if  decked  with  appropriate  trimmings  for  some  slat- 
tern festival.  Before  them  rose  the  masts  of  fishing- 


174  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

craft,  drawn  up,  with  faded  red  and  azure  hulls  ex- 
posed, on  the  black  sand. 

There  the  inhabitants  were  gathering  in  groups. 
Their  sharp  eyes  had  discerned  strangers  in  Ilario's 
boat. 

Sebastian  turned  to  Ghirlaine. 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet.  Supporting  herself 
against  the  mast,  her  face  colorless,  her  golden  hair 
dishevelled,  her  sodden  dress  clinging  to  her  limbs, 
she  stared  ahead  with  glassy  eyes,  in  which  appeared 
an  immeasurable,  a  ghastly  incredulity.  For  the 
first  time  since  that  plunge  he  spoke  to  her: 

"  Now  we'll  soon  have  you  dry  and  warm.  There's 
the  tower  of  a  church.  There'll  be  a  priest,  and  a 
parish-house,  of  sorts.  We've  not  left  civilization 
quite  behind." 

In  fact,  he  had  made  out,  among  the  crowd  on 
shore,  the  cocked  hats  of  two  carabineers — those 
military  police  who  are  found  in  every  corner  of  the 
realm  of  Italy. 

Rowing-boats  put  out  to  meet  them.  Over  the 
gunwales  rimmed  with  scarlet  paint,  savage  young 
faces  stared  at  them  in  amazement.  Questions  began 
to  volley  round  them.  But  old  Ilario,  in  the  stern, 
merely  closed  his  eyes  from  time  to  time  and  nodded 
cryptically.  The  lean,  blackish  fellow  forward,  with 
the  features  of  an  Arab,  at  each  new  demand  for  in- 
formation shrugged  slowly,  with  a  movement  rather 
like  a  shudder,  and  spat  into  the  water.  Only  the 
young  one  responded.  And  between  the  long  rig- 
maroles that  clattered  from  his  tongue,  his  wild  eyes, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  175 

under  their  dangling  mop  of  hair,  returned  to  gaze  at 
Ghirlaine,  at  her  blonde  tresses,  her  bare  neck,  and 
the  chain  of  diamonds  round  her  wrist.  Sebastian 
spoke  to  her  again: 

"You'd  better  put  away  your  bracelet." 

She  made  no  sign,  then,  of  having  heard.  But 
finally  she  shivered,  unfastened  the  chain,  and 
dropped  it  down  the  corsage  of  her  dress. 

The  boat  glided  into  shallow  water.  The  sail  came 
down.  A  dozen  men,  bare-legged  to  the  thighs,  laid 
hands  upon  the  bulwarks.  The  crowd  pressed  for- 
ward. 

Ghirlaine,  as  she  stared  round  her  at  all  those  dark 
eyes  gleaming  in  sun-blackened  faces,  those  violent- 
looking  bodies  clothed  in  rags,  began  to  tremble. 
Even  the  women,  in  their  dingy  calicoes  and  head- 
kerchiefs,  displayed  in  form  and  visage  a  latent  feroc- 
ity, as  of  aborigines  masquerading  in  the  tag-ends  of 
civilized  attire. 

Sebastian  came  to  her.  She  made  as  if  to  draw 
back  from  him,  her  lips  apart,  her  breast  heaving, 
more  frightened,  apparently,  by  him  than  by  the 
rest.  He  said,  in  a  lifeless  tone: 

"Afterward,  whatever  you  wish.  Just  now, 
though,  you'd  best  let  me  help  you." 

He  turned  to  the  crowd. 

"Get  a  plank." 

At  his  words  and  accent,  there  rose  a  murmur,  a 
tittering — the  derision,  involuntary  in  very  simple 
natures,  for  what  is  strange.  He  swept  his  eyes  over 
aU  those  grinning  countenances,  that  were  grinning 


176  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

not  with  honest  mirth  but  with  a  sort  of  stealthy 
malice.  .  .  .  The  murmur  ceased. 

But  the  two  carabineers  advanced.  Their  cocked 
hats  and  blue-black  coats  cut  swallow-tail  were  im- 
maculate. Their  silvery  buttons  and  their  sword- 
hilts  glittered  bravely.  Their  fresh,  calm  faces,  that 
proclaimed  them  exiles  from  the  north,  were  remark- 
able amid  all  that  unkempt  brutality.  Two  units  of 
civilization,  deposited,  by  the  great  machine  of  Or- 
der, in  this  isolated  spot,  they  showed  in  dress  and 
demeanor  a  strange  dignity.  Everything  about  them 
was  reassuring.  Yet  Sebastian  would  just  as  lief  not 
have  found  them  there! 

"A  plank  for  the  lady,  if  you  please." 

The  carabineer  whose  stripes  proclaimed  him  a 
Maresciallo — a  marshal — passed  an  order  to  the 
crowd.  A  plank  appeared  as  if  by  magic.  Ghir- 
laine  was  helped  ashore.  When  the  carabineers  had 
ordered  the  people  to  stand  back,  Sebastian  inquired : 

"Whereto?" 

The  Maresciallo  was  a  strongly  built  man,  almost 
as  tall  and  broad-shouldered  as  Sebastian,  ruddy, 
with  a  wide-spread,  fair  mustache.  He  cast  a  quick 
glance  over  Sebastian's  wilted  evening-dress,  and 
Ghirlaine's  gauze  and  satin.  Then,  noting  her  hag- 
gard eyes  and  drooping  figure,  he  replied,  emphati- 
cally, in  pure  Italian: 

"The  police-office  is  certainly  no  place  for  this 
lady." 

"There's  a  priest  in  the  village?" 

"Sicuro!    Let  us  go  there." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  177 

And  they  set  out  eastward,  along  the  narrow,  net- 
encumbered  beach,  toward  the  promontory  where 
rose  the  rough  bell-tower. 

The  crowd  tramped  after  them.  Children,  their 
knees  and  elbows  sticking  through  their  clothes,  kept 
running  ahead,  to  look  back  at  this  unprecedented 
spectacle.  New  faces  popped  out  from  windows  and 
above  the  loggia  walls.  The  cavernous  staircases 
rumbled.  Out  of  the  tunnel-doorways  emerged  new 
figures,  to  join  the  following.  All  the  village  was  at 
their  heels,  when  the  carabineers  and  the  strangers 
reached  the  parish-house. 

It  was  a  little  crumbling  dwelling  with  soft-stone 
walls,  that  leaned  against  the  church,  on  the  spine  of 
the  eastern  promontory,  just  beyond  the  village.  The 
open  door  was  surmounted  by  a  wooden  Crucifix  and 
the  Monogram  of  Christ.  On  the  threshold  stood  a 
wisp  of  a  man,  old,  yellow,  vastly  wrinkled,  hook- 
nosed, with  a  long  slit  of  a  mouth  perpetually  smil- 
ing, and  bright,  shallow  eyes.  He  wore  a  threadbare 
cassock.  He  was  the  parocco — the  village  priest. 

And  Sebastian,  instantly  appraising  the  simple 
honesty  of  his  features,  had  his  second  disappoint- 
ment. For  he  would  have  preferred  another,  pos- 
sibly less  unusual-looking,  type  of  parocco.  .  .  . 

The  old  man  seemed  to  understand  the  situation  at 
first  glance.  He  took  Ghirlaine  by  the  hand,  patted 
her  wrist,  and  peered,  with  a  kindness  none  the  less 
intense  because  a  trifle  wavering,  into  her  sick  eyes. 
At  that  look,  her  lips  quivered;  she  swayed  slightly 
forward;  her  hands  clung  to  his;  all  her  being  sent 


178  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

forth,  as  it  were,  to  the  good  she  felt  in  him,  a  mute, 
poignant  cry  for  help.  .  .  .  He  seemed  startled  by 
that  look,  and  quickly  led  her  into  the  house. 

Sebastian  and  the  Maresciallo  followed.  The 
second  carabineer  remained  outside.  There  he  ex- 
plained to  the  assembled  village  the  discourtesy  of 
unbridled  curiosity. 

The  room  in  which  the  others  found  themselves  was 
barely  furnished.  On  the  stone  floor,  three  rickety 
chairs  stood  round  a  table,  which  held  an  ink-well,  a 
dish  of  purple  sand,  some  religious  pamphlets,  and  a 
soiled  coffee-cup.  All  the  windows  were  tight-closed. 
From  the  discolored  walls  a  cold  hopelessness  seemed 
to  fall  into  this  atmosphere  of  stagnation.  For  some 
reason,  to  Ghirlaine,  the  place,  instead  of  a  sanctu- 
ary, was  like  a  prison.  .  .  . 

Abruptly,  her  surroundings  all  receded.  She  had 
a  feeling,  unique  and  terrible,  as  if  her  heart  had 
stopped.  She  moved  toward  a  chair — it  disappeared 
before  her  eyes.  .  .  .  She  fainted. 

It  was  Sebastian  who  sprang  forward  just  in 
time. 

"Is  there  a  woman  in  this  house?" 

"Maria!" 

"Eccumi — here  I  am!"  answered  a  deep  voice 
from  the  corridor. 

And  an  old  slattern  wellnigh  as  broad  as  tall,  im- 
mensely fat,  her  dingy  triple  chin  adorned  by  sprout- 
ing moles,  rolled  into  the  room  with  an  astonishing 
agility.  She  had  evidently  been  waiting  at  the  key- 
hole. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  179 

"Give  her  to  me,"  demanded  this  apparition,  ex- 
tending two  arms  as  formidable  as  a  gorilla's. 

"Can  you  carry  her?" 

She  laughed,  showing  a  mouth  bereft  of  teeth, 
large,  red,  almost  lewd  in  its  unnatural  nakedness. 
Without  replying  further,  she  took  his  burden, 
whirled  round,  and  waddled  out  as  swiftly  as  she 
had  entered.  To  him,  the  sight  of  that  long,  beauti- 
ful body  caught  up  and  borne  away  by  the  squat, 
trull-like  housekeeper  was  shocking  —  an  augury, 
perhaps,  which  made  him  lower  his  head  in  sullen 
shame.  .  .  .  But  from  the  depths  of  the  corridor  the 
woman  bellowed  back: 

"Stay  where  you  are,  you  others!  She's  going  to 
bed!"  * 

A  door  slammed. 

"Capable?"  remarked  the  Maresciallo,  approv- 
ingly, as  a  man  of  action. 

The  priest,  with  a  wry  smile,  assented : 

"Capability — a  gift  of  tyrants!  .  .  .  But  let's  sit 
down.  One  of  us  is  weary,  and  possibly  hungry 
also?" 

"Rather,"  Sebastian  assented,  reflecting  that  he 
had  eaten  nothing  since  the  previous  morning.  Five 
minutes  later,  he  was  swallowing  bread  and  coffee. 

That  meal  concluded,  the  old  priest  produced  from 
inside  his  cassock  two  of  those  powerful  cigars  called 
"Toscanas,"  long,  black,  and  shaped  like  shrivelled 
vanilla-beans.  These  he  cut  into  halves.  Three  parts 
he  distributed,  and  pocketed  the  fourth.  One  match, 
with  care,  served  all.  A  cloud  of  villainous  smoke 
ascended.  The  carabineer  took  out  his  note-book. 


i8o  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"At  your  leisure,  Signore,"  he  said,  politely. 

With  a  jerk  Sebastian's  thoughts  returned  from 
Ghirlaine  to  this  more  pressing  dilemma.  He  leaned 
back,  closed  his  eyes,  exhaled  a  few  smoke-rings,  re- 
flected rapidly.  The  others  gazed  with  a  respect  that 
approached  admiration  at  this  big  stranger,  so  much 
at  ease  in  his  ruined  finery  which  surely  only  princes 
wore,  so  obviously  the  master  of  himself,  for  all  the 
strangeness  of  his  situation. 

He  began  slowly,  with  the  manner  of  a  man  who 
wants,  at  all  costs,  to  be  precise,  to  omit  nothing  im- 
portant, to  make  everything  as  clear  as  day: 

"I  am  a  Russian.  My  name  is  Saranin  Scha- 
poschnikoff . " 

The  carabineer,  licking  his  pencil,  made  a  hopeless 
try  at  those  exotic  syllables. 

"What  titles,  Excellency?" 

"I  have  none." 

"Profession?"    This  in  a  deprecatory  voice. 

"I  manage  my  estates." 

"Of  course!  .  .  .  Domicile?" 

"Why,  difficult  to  say.  My  properties  are  scat- 
tered. However,  put  down  Malo  Attymskoi.  I  was 
born  there." 

The  carabineer,  with  the  national  carelessness  for 
foreign  names,  dashed  off  his  conception  of  what 
these  words  should  look  like. 

"And  the  lady,  of  course?" 

"Of  course.     The  lady  is  my  wife." 

The  soldier,  his  honest  face  instantly  flushing,  was 
so  confused  that  he  neglected  to  ask  her  given  name. 
Sebastian  continued: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  181 

"For  more  than  a  year,  Signori,  my  wife  has  been 
melancholy.  The  doctors  ordered  change,  travel, 
unusual  scenes.  For  several  months  we  followed  this 
prescription.  She  seemed  greatly  improved.  One 
might  say  almost  well  again.  Then  we  came  to 
Tunis." 

His  face  clouded.  They  could  see,  from  his  ex- 
pression, that  he  should  not  have  taken  her  to  Tunis. 

"From  Tunis  we  planned  to  go  on  to  Palermo.  I 
chose  a  way  that  I  thought  would  amuse  her  and  dis- 
tract her.  I  chartered  a  sailing-boat,  nothing  won- 
derful, but  good  enough  for  so  short  a  voyage.  It  be- 
longed to  a  fellow-countryman  of  mine,  who  had 
gone  inland  to  explore  the  desert.  It  carried  a  crew 
of  ten.  There  was  even  a  neat  little  dining-saloon. 
Indeed,  we  were  tempted  to  pretend  it  was  a  yacht. 
We  amused  ourselves,  those  two  nights,  by  dressing 
for  dinner." 

The  Maresciallo  nodded  solemnly  to  the  priest. 
His  premonition  had  been  right:  this  stranger  was, 
without  a  doubt,  one  of  the  pezzi  grossly  one  of  the  "big 
pieces,"  in  the  world.  He  listened  with  augmented 
sympathy,  as  Sebastian  went  on: 

"We  had  favoring  winds.  We  found  ourselves 
delighted  with  that  venture.  Last  night,  when  we 
went  below,  the  future  seemed  bright  again.  For 
my  wife's  late  melancholy  had  drawn  her  away  from 
me,  so  that  at  times  she  couldn't  even  bear  my  com- 
pany. But  this  recovery  was  bringing  everything 
back  to  its  old  basis.  We  even  spoke  of  an  early 
return  to  our  own  land. 


1 82  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"We  had  not  left  the  dining-saloon,  when  suddenly 
we  were  thrown  against  the  wall,  the  vessel  rolled 
over,  the  seams  parted,  the  sea  gushed  in.  A  great 
ship  had  run  us  down. 

"How  did  this  happen?  Our  lights  must  have 
been  burning.  There  was  no  fog.  The  stars  were 
out.  Besides,  a  man  was  at  the  wheel  and  another 
was  at  the  bow.  Or  at  least  when  we  went  below. 
...  It  will  never  be  explained.  I  presume  the  rest 
are  drowned. 

"I  dragged  my  wife  on  deck  just  as  the  sea  closed 
over  us.  When  we  came  up,  the  steam-ship  was  al- 
ready far  away.  But  it  isn't  easy  to  resign  oneself 
to  death!  I  went  on  struggling  and  shouting.  .  .  . 
At  last,  the  fishing-boat  answered." 

The  carabineer,  his  pencil  poised  above  his  note- 
book, remained  in  the  same  attitude,  agape.  But 
presently  the  old  priest  rose,  approached,  and  laid 
on  Sebastian's  broad  shoulder  a  tremulous  hand.  In 
quivering  accents: 

"My  son,  the  work  of  God  is  plain  in  that  miracu- 
lous rescue!" 

Sebastian  shook  his  head. 

"  You  think  so?  The  shock  to  my  wife  has  undone 
everything  we'd  gained.  She's  where  she  was  a  year 
ago.  Perhaps  even  worse  off.  All  to  do  over  again ! 
It  is  too  much!" 

"Have  faith,  my  son,"  the  old  priest  replied,  still 
patting  the  other's  shoulder.  "You  will  see  in  time. 
In  the  end,  everything  is  for  the  good.  ..." 

He  returned  to  his  place,  sat  down,  and  blew  a 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  183 

trumpet-blast  in  his  bandanna  handkerchief.  Silence 
ensued. 

Sebastian  gloomily  drew  out  his  pocket-book,  ex- 
plored its  contents,  and  with  care  extracted  some 
pulpy  bank-notes.  Spreading  on  the  table  a  hun- 
dred-lire bill,  he  said: 

"  Masses,  for  the  souls  of  those  who  were  drowned." 

The  old  priest  fixed  his  eyes  upon  this  wealth.  He 
stammered : 

"Too  much,  Signore!" 

"I  should  not  be  satisfied  to  offer  less." 

He  took  out  six  bank-notes  of  ten  lire  each,  and 
addressed  the  Maresciallo. 

"For  the  three  who  brought  us  ashore.  Please  see 
that  they  receive  it  each  into  his  own  hands." 

The  carabineer  put  the  money  into  his  note-book. 

"Excellency,"  he  said,  respectfully,  "I  thank  you 
for  them  in  advance." 

The  stranger  had  gauged  very  accurately  the  lo- 
cal standard  of  extreme  munificence.  Moreover,  he 
knew  better  than  to  offer  money  to  a  carabineer, 
whether  for  services  rendered  or  in  expectation  of 
good-will.  He  put  up  his  pocket-book,  considered, 
then  inquired: 

"What  communication  with  the  mainland?" 

"A  small  steam-ship,  every  two  weeks,  from  Tra- 
pani,  in  Sicily.  By  good  luck,  it's  due  this  after- 
noon!" 

"Ah.  ...  I  shall  want  to  send  off  some  letters." 

"But  you  yourself,  Signore?" 

Sebastian  raised  his  shoulders  slowly. 


1 84  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"What  can  I  do?  If  I  took  her  on  the  water 
again  immediately,  who  knows  how  it  might  affect 
her?  No;  we  must  wait  here  at  least  till  the  next 
boat.  But — where  are  we  to  stay?" 

Said  the  priest : 

"My  house,  such  as  it  is " 

"I  am  not  willing  to  impose  on  you  so  far.  .  .  . 
What  place  is  that  on  the  headland,  that  we  passed 
as  we  came  in?" 

The  carabineer  and  the  priest  exchanged  a  glance, 
then  smiled  at  each  other  rather  foolishly.  The 
Maresciallo  replied: 

"Eh!    I  suppose  you'd  call  it  a  villa." 

"Empty?" 

"So  to  speak.  .  .  ." 

"Furnished?" 

"Well,  after  a  fashion.  .  .  .  The  man  who  built  it 
gave  up  the  idea  of  living  in  it,  before  he'd  quite 
moved  in." 

"And  who  was  he?" 

"  A  foreigner  like  your  Excellency.  But  half -dead. 
Always  coughing  and  painting  pictures.  Mad,  they 
called  him  here.  Until  he  went  away." 

"Why  did  he  go  away?" 

The  carabineer  spread  out  his  hands,  shrugged 
largely,  and  again  looked  rather  foolish. 

"These  donkeys — these  natives!  They  get  a 
thing  in  their  heads.  They  talk  and  talk.  Some- 
times, if  they  talk  enough,  they  make  other  people 
donkeys  like  themselves.  Eh!  A  funny  thing, 
gossip!" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  185 

"It  doesn't  affect  Annibale,"  the  priest  suggested. 

"OrFannia!" 

"Ah!"  The  old  man  made  a  gesture  of  distress. 
Sebastian  said: 

"The  old  fisherman,  Ilario,  told  me  that  no  one 
lives  there." 

"Oh,  Ilario!  Because  Annibale  is  his  enemy,  and 
because  he  declares  that  Fannia,  who  is  his  daughter, 
no  longer  exists."  The  priest  sighed. 

"So  the  villa's  occupied  after  all?" 

"Occupied?  Yes  and  no.  They  live  there,  Fan- 
nia and  Annibale,  because  nobody  prevents  them. 
It's  hard  to  come  by,  and  Annibale  has  a  rifle.  And 
at  night,  when  a  man  might  creep  up  close,  there's 
no  one  who'd  venture  there,  for  other  reasons.  .  .  . 
Of  course,  Signor  Maresciallo,  you  excluded." 

The  carabineer  inclined  his  head  with  dignity,  then 
answered: 

"Annibale  has  only  to  commit  some  little  crime 
for  me  to  visit  him.  As  for  his  present  state,  if  the 
Law  considered  it  a  crime  for  a  man  and  a  girl  to 
lead  their  life,  we  others  should  be  arresting  couples 
every  hour  in  the  twenty-four.  Their  little  affair  is  a 
family  matter  still." 

"Well,"  demanded  Sebastian,  suddenly,  "is  this 
villa  for  rent?  " 

"For  rent!  That's  a  new  thought.  After  all,  it 
must  be.  The  Syndic  has  the  keys.  Though  the 
doors  would  naturally  be  open,  Annibale  and  Fannia 
living  there.  ..." 

"I  think,"  said  Sebastian,  "that  I  shall  take  it  for 
a  week  or  two." 


1 86  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

The  old  priest  looked  disturbed.  To  the  Mare- 
sciallo  he  muttered: 

"All  that  stirred  up  again?" 

"But  maybe  ended,  this  time,  for  good,"  was  the 
reply. 

"Another  thing.  .  .  .  Annibale  might  be  ugly." 

"If  Annibale's  ugly,"  remarked  Sebastian,  "I  shall 
be  a  little  ugly  too." 

"Excellency,"  said  the  soldier,  promptly,  "if  you 
rent  the  villa,  the  carabineers  will  go  with  you  when 
you  take  possession.  There  may  be  some  trifling  ac- 
tion as  a  result — unhappily ! "  Despite  his  last  word, 
he  looked  wonderfully  refreshed,  like  a  man  who 
sniffs  excitement  after  infinite  boredom.  With  per- 
haps an  involuntary  warmth,  he  added: 

"Indeed,  it's  a  pretty  spot  up  there.  It  would 
enchant  the  lady." 

"No  doubt  of  that,"  returned  Sebastian.  Then, 
rising,  he  concluded,  in  decisive  tones: 

"I  shall  move  in  to-day.  Kindly  inform  the  Syn- 
dic. Good-morning,  Signor  Maresciallo,  and  a  thou- 
sand thanks.  If  you  see  the  storekeeper,  send  him 
round  with  some  samples  of  his  boots  and  clothing. 
Now,  Padre,  if  I  may  write  my  letters.  .  .  ." 

The  first  letter  was  to  His  Excellency,  Boris  Bash- 
kirtseff,  General  Post,  Tunis.  It  contained  half  a 
dozen  blank  pages.  The  second  was  to  Disnisius 
Pappachzislos,  General  Post,  Palermo,  and  ran  as 
follows: 

Tell  the  hotel  that  I  have  gone  to  Messina.  Take  the  baggage 
there.  Pretend  to  be  awaiting  me  from  Naples.  But  the  night 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  187 

of  your  arrival,  you  must  receive  a  telegram  saying  I  have  been 
called  to  London.  Leave  Messina  at  once,  ostensibly  for  Eng- 
land. Go  to  Tunis.  At  the  Poste  Restante,  you  will  find  a 
dummy  letter  addressed  to  Boris  BashkirtsejJ.  Identify  your- 
self as  this  individual,  and  take  it  up. 

From  Tunis  send  me  some  clothing  suitable  for  rural  wear,  and 
a  similar  outfit  for  a  lady,  tall,  and  rather  slender.  Stout  shoes, 
for  a  narrow  foot.  Best  to  send  several  sizes.  Pack  with  these 
things  the  Mauser  automatic,  the  rifle-stock,  and  about  twenty 
clips  of  cartridges. 

If  there  is  a  Russian  Consular  Agent  at  Tunis  now,  get  some 
of  his  stationery.  On  it  write,  over  the  signature,  Boris  Bash- 
kirtseff,  that  Monsieur  TestyojJ  is  still  in  the  interior,  but  will  be 
notified.  Mention  a  shipment  of  money.  Close  with  regrets. 
Arrange  this  letter  so  that  it  can  easily  be  opened  by  the  police. 
It  had  better  be  in  French,  for  their  convenience. 

In  another  envelope,  well  sealed,  and  registered,  forward  two 
thousand  lire,  small  bills.  I  think  you  have  saved  enough,  out 
of  what  you  have  taken  from  my  pockets,  to  pay  for  this  remit- 
tance and  your  travelling  expenses.  Later  on  I  will  reimburse 
you. 

If  you  have  anything  to  say,  write  it  in  English,  and  enclose 
with  the  bank-notes. 

Then  disappear.  It  would  be  a  good  opportunity,  and  a 
pleasant  recreation  for  you,  to  return  to  Balikisri,  and  settle  with 
your  old  enemy.  When  I  want  you  again,  you  will  find  a  note 
at  the  Cafe  Osmanlie,  Rue  de  Sirkedji,  Constantinople. 

Don't  attempt  to  meddle  with  my  scarf-pins.  I  am  still  an 
excellent  judge  of  counterfeit  pearls  and  jewels. 

All  communications  to  Saranin  Schapposchnikojf,  Torregi- 
ante,  by  way  of  Trapani,  Sicily. 

He  sealed  both  envelopes  with  wax,  and  sent  them 
to  be  registered. 

The  storekeeper  arrived  with  a  bundle  of  his  wares. 
Sebastian  changed  into  a  fishing-jersey,  a  rough  suit 


1 88  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

of  frieze,  wooden-soled  boots,  and  a  felt  hat.  Thus 
attired,  he  went  out. 

The  crowd  had  departed.  But,  at  his  call,  a  thin 
little  boy,  nut-brown  and  covered  with  dust,  ad- 
vanced round  the  corner  of  the  church.  Sebastian 
pointed  high  over  the  village,  toward  the  yellow 
walls  that  crowned  the  western  headland. 

"Picciutteddu — little  fellow,  you're  going  to  show 
me  the  path  to  that  villa." 

The  child's  eyes  dilated.  He  recoiled,  and  crossed 
himself. 

"Ma  'cche— never!" 

"I'm  not  asking  you  to  go  there,  Picciriddu,  but 
to  point  out  the  way." 

The  boy  stared  at  the  money  in  Sebastian's  hand 
with  a  hungry,  desperate  look.  At  last,  he  turned 
quickly,  made  a  furtive  sign  with  two  fingers,  and  set 
off  down  the  slope  toward  the  beach. 

Fishermen  dropped  their  nets,  or  clambered  out  of 
their  beached  boats,  to  stare  at  him.  The  loggia 
walls  were  suddenly  lined  with  women,  smeary-faced 
babies  in  their  arms.  None  spoke.  But  Sebastian's 
guide  cried  out,  in  his  shrill  treble,  struggling 
between  bravado  and  anxiety: 

"He's  going  to  the  Place-Up-There ! " 

Immediately  there  ran  from  lip  to  lip  a  murmur 
of  amazement: 

"The  Place-Up-There!  .  .  .  Another  mad  one! 
.  .  .  Eh,  let  him  go!  Annibale  will  discourage  him! 
...  All  the  same,  a  human  being,  like  our- 
selves. ." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  189 

And  a  few  cries  pursued  him,  uttered  by  strong 
young  voices : 

"  Signuri,  take  good  advice!  Leave  the  Place-Up- 
There  alone!" 

The  Marshal  of  carabineers  came  out  of  a  shabby 
doorway  surmounted  by  the  Cross  of  Savoy.  Be- 
hind him  three  privates  showed  themselves,  bare- 
headed, in  white-canvas  barrack-jackets. 

"Excellency,  the  men  are  hardly  ready." 

"I'm  going  up  alone." 

"  Alone !  Annibale  would  put  a  bullet  in  your  head 
before  you  even  saw  him!" 

"I  think  not." 

"Signore,  I  cannot  permit  it." 

Sebastian  looked  at  the  soldier  pleasantly. 

"My  friend,  there  are  two  ways  of  dealing  with  a 
rifle — to  flatter  it  by  attention,  and  to  ignore  it.  To 
ignore  it  frequently  saves  powder,  blood,  and  uni- 
forms. Go  back  to  your  cards,  and  save  your  cara- 
bineers to  deal  to  you  again  to-morrow.  Excitement 
is  no  relief  to  dead  men." 

For  a  moment  the  Maresciallo  stared,  then 
stepped  back  and  saluted.  A  new  respect  was  in  his 
face. 

"Excellency,  it  is  most  irregular,  and  against  a 
good  half  of  my  instincts.  .  .  .  But  if  I  agree,  it's 
because  something  tells  me  that  you  are  Annibale's 
master." 

"Diamine!  If  I  am  not!  Since  naturally  he 
came  into  my  service  when  I  decided  to  rent  the 
villa." 


190  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Followed  by  some  young  men,  he  went  on  along 
the  beach,  behind  the  little  boy.  They  took  to  the 
hillside.  Higher  up,  they  entered  the  groves  that 
clothed  the  slope  from  that  altitude  to  the  summit. 
Ten  minutes'  climbing  brought  them  to  a  narrow 
path,  hemmed  in  with  trees  all  slanted  in  one  direc- 
tion by  past  gales.  Here  Sebastian's  following  stood 
still.  His  small  guide  would  go  no  farther.  He  went 
on  alone. 

Among  the  tree-trunks,  gray  rocks  were  piled  up 
here  and  there,  as  if  shaken  down  by  some  vast  land- 
slip. On  either  hand,  aloes,  prickly-pears,  and  com- 
mon cactus  raised  thick  hedges.  It  was  an  ideal 
situation  for  an  ambush. 

Sebastian  paused  in  a  clearing  to  gaze  back.  Be- 
yond the  tree-tops,  between  two  stone-pines  that 
rose  above  the  rest,  he  saw  the  village  roofs  spread 
out  far  below,  the  rim  of  the  beach,  the  tiny  fishing- 
boats.  Through  that  high-set  foliage  the  salt  breeze 
sighed  heavily.  And,  as  it  lulled,  he  heard,  close 
by,  the  click  of  a  gun-lock. 

He  turned  to  look  up  the  path. 

"Is  that  you,  Annibale?" 

Silence.  .  .  . 

"Annibale,  a  well-bred  servant  never  shoots  his 
master  till  hot  weather.  And,  as  I've  just  taken  the 
villa,  I  am  your  landlord.  Your  service  began,  in 
fact,  two  hours  ago.  But  I'm  not  paying  you  wages 
to  waste  your  time  in  this  particular  way.  Come 
out,  and  take  your  orders!" 

Nothing  moved,  except  the  branches  in  the  wind. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  191 

Sebastian  raised  his  voice: 

"Another  thing,  Annibale.  You'll  find  me  rather 
short  of  patience.  I'm  liable  to  come  after  you. 
You  may  get  a  cuff  or  two.  Of  course,  a  blow  would 
have  to  be  washed  out  in  blood.  But  I  have  an  idea 
that  it  won't  be  mine.  In  that  case,  Fannia  may 
object  to  staying  in  my  employ.  A  pity,  because 
my  Signura  is  with  me.  .  .  . 

"You  rascal,  if  you  were  born  dumb,  shoot  off 
your  gun,  and  let  me  know  where  to  find  you!" 

Suddenly,  from  behind  a  cactus-hedge  a  dozen 
yards  up  the  slope,  there  rose  a  tall,  herculean  young 
man,  bronzed,  ragged,  of  a  ferocious  sort  of  beauty. 
He  held  a  rifle.  His  deep  chest  heaved  beneath  his 
tatters.  His  face  was  working. 

At  once,  Sebastian  advanced  on  him. 

The  outlaw  jerked  up  his  rifle.  But  the  other, 
with  a  shrug,  kept  on,  while  warning  him: 

"Those  old-fashioned  gas-pipes  are  liable  to  blow 
up  in  a  man's  face.  If  you  caught  me  after  an 
exceptionally  good  dinner,  Annibale,  I  could  buy 
you  a  new  rifle,  but  hardly  a  new  pair  of  jaws. 
By  the  way,  I  hope  your  Fannia  knows  how  to 
cook." 

He  took  the  weapon  from  the  fellow's  fingers,  ex- 
amined it,  and  returned  it  in  disgust. 

"In  a  few  days  I'll  show  you  a  real  one.  Mean- 
while, I  want  to  find  myself  in  a  decent  house.  Clean 
floors,  clean  beds,  clean  water.  Tell  Fannia  that  the 
Signura  and  I  will  be  up  by  sundown.  If  you  have  a 
whole  pair  of  trousers,  put  them  on.  If  not,  I'll 


192  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

bring  them  from  the  village.  What  else?  Candles? 
Blankets?  Salt?  Bread?  Wine?  I  see  by  your 
ribs  that  you've  been  living  close.  ..." 

The  outlaw  continued  to  gape  at  him. 

"Are  you  really  deaf  and  dumb,  after  all?" 

"No." 

"A  little  more  politeness,  Annibale." 

"No— Signuri." 

"Then  for  God's  love,  begin  to  show  some  energy 
in  my  affairs!" 

He  looked  the  man  in  the  eyes,  smiled,  and  clapped 
him  on  the  shoulder.  The  fellow's  face  changed;  his 
eyes  fell — it  was  a  victory.  Without  further  ado, 
wheeling  round,  Sebastian  descended  toward  the 
village. 

The  Marshal  of  carabineers  was  just  setting  out  in 
search  of  him,  with  the  whole  force — three  men. 
Evidently,  he  had  repented  of  his  yielding,  and 
begun  to  fear  the  worst.  At  sight  of  Sebastian,  his 
features  expressed  considerable  relief. 

"Ah,  Excellency,  but  you  were  wise  enough  to 
change  your  mind!" 

"  I  have  seen  him.     We  go  up  this  evening." 

"Cospettol" 

But  the  soldier  quickly  turned  grave. 

"I  have  to  tell  your  Excellency  that  the  Signora 
is  far  from  well.  ..." 

It  was  true.  Ghirlaine  had  passed  from  uncon- 
sciousness into  a  semi-stupor.  When  he  entered  the 
room  where  she  was  lying,  she  did  not  recognize  him. 
Thus  she  remained,  even  while  they  carried  her,  at 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  193 

twilight,  in  a  hammock  made  of  nets  and  oars,  up 
through  the  woods,  to  the  commencement  of  the 
path.  There,  at  Sebastian's  request,  the  carabineers 
fell  back.  And  presently,  at  his  call,  Annibale  vent- 
ured down,  to  share  that  burden  with  him,  to  the 
villa. 


CHAPTER  XI 

FOR  a  long  while,  Ghirlaine  was  conscious  only  of 
a  pattering  of  bare  feet  on  stone  floors,  energetic 
whispers,  rough  hands  that  touched  her  gently,  the 
coolness  of  water  on  her  forehead.  .  .  . 

Sunlight,  shining  through  shutters,  made  patterns 
on  a  plaster  wall.  Then  a  candle  nickered  beneath 
a  gaudy  print  of  the  Madonna. 

She  discerned,  at  last,  a  young  woman  seated  knit- 
ting, copper-colored  from  the  sun,  black-browed, 
strong-looking,  handsome  in  a  wild,  dishevelled  way. 
She  wore  the  remnant  of  a  faded  pink  print  dress. 
Her  muscular  brown  feet  were  bare.  She  was  almost 
at  the  threshold  of  maternity. 

Ghirlaine  moved  on  the  narrow  iron  bedstead. 
The  young  woman,  rising  at  once,  approached. 
With  grave  sympathy,  in  a  deep,  husky  voice,  she 
asked: 

"E  megghiu,  Signura?" 

And  presently,  as  the  other  showed  no  signs  of 
comprehension,  she  turned  from  Sicilian  to  Italian: 

"Sta  meglio — are  you  better?" 

Mechanically,  Ghirlaine  answered: 

"I  don't  speak  Italian.  .  .  ." 

"Ah!" 

The  stranger  made  a  gesture  of  resignation,  re- 

194 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  195 

arranged  the  coverlid,  returned  to  her  knitting.  And 
silence  again  pervaded  that  dim  chamber. 

In  the  night,  Ghirlaine  woke  to  realize  fully  her 
position.  The  faces  of  her  aunt,  of  Vincent  Pam- 
fort,  of  Sangallo,  and  many  others,  rose  before  her. 
Through  the  darkness,  they  appeared  to  gaze  at  her 
as  if  from  far  off,  from  beyond  an  immeasurable 
abyss,  from  a  world  that  she  had  left,  and  would 
never  see  again.  Then  incredulity  struggled  against 
the  horror  of  this  thought.  But  she  heard  the  faint 
murmur  of  waves  below  the  cliffs.  And  that  sound 
recalled  to  her,  all  vivid,  the  engulfing  sea,  the  fish- 
ing-boat, the  isle,  the  truth! 

She  began  to  fill  the  room  with  sobs.  A  light 
sprang  forth.  The  peasant,  half  awake,  glided  to 
the  bedside. 

"Tranquillu.  .  .  .     Tranquillu.  ..." 

Ghirlaine  clung  to  this  ragged  girl,  hi  whom  she 
seemed  to  recognize  a  source  of  strength,  a  humble 
ally,  perhaps  a  refuge.  Finally,  still  holding  that 
calloused  hand  hi  hers,  she  wept  herself  to  sleep 
again.  .  .  . 

Once  more  the  sun  shone  on  the  walls.  The  room 
was  empty.  Out  of  doors,  two  men  were  talking  in 
low  tones.  Motionless,  with  cold  shudders  running 
over  her,  she  listened  to  Sebastian's  voice. 

He  was  talking  calmly  in  a  strange  tongue  that 
hardly  sounded  like  Italian.  A  voice  answered  him 
respectfully.  Presently  his  heavy  footfalls  died 
away. 

A  woman's  whisper  followed,  and  a  rustle  of  bare 


196  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

feet.  The  brown  girl  entered.  Over  her  shoulder,  a 
massive  young  man  peered  in.  When  he  saw  Ghir- 
laine  looking  at  him,  he  vanished. 

At  once,  she  found  her  present  position  intolerable. 
Despite  her  weakness,  she  might  not  feel  so  thor- 
oughly defenceless  if  she  were  on  her  feet?  Abruptly, 
her  head  swimming,  she  sat  up.  Then  she  remem- 
bered the  ruined  low-neck  evening  dress. 

The  peasant,  however,  with  a  glistening  smile  pro- 
duced a  homely  frock  of  dark-blue  wool,  some  coarse 
muslin  garments,  and  flimsy  kid  shoes  with  long 
patent-leather  toes.  But  when  she  had  laid  this  cos- 
tume on  the  bed  she  added  to  it,  with  a  flourish,  a 
shawl  of  crocus-yellow  silk,  fringed,  and  embroidered 
garishly  with  blue  roses — a  shawl  such  as  peasant 
girls  wear  on  their  wedding-day. 

It  was  he  who  had  bought  these  things:  yet  she 
had  to  put  them  on ! 

As  she  donned  this  clothing  of  the  poor,  such  as  she 
had  never  even  touched  before,  a  sense  of  unreality 
returned  to  her,  a  doubt  of  her  identity.  Surely  it 
was  a  dream?  But  the  soft  monotone  of  the  sea 
persisted.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  mirror  on  the  wall.  She  looked  at  her 
reflection. 

With  hollow  eyes,  and  blond  hair  all  disordered 
round  her  pallor,  she  showed  a  new,  tragic  sort  of 
beauty.  In  that  face  there  was  something  strange — 
as  if  she  were  gazing  at  the  features  of  a  sister  who 
had  passed  through  untold  travail.  Tears  blurred 
her  eyes.  But  she  repulsed  this  weakness. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  197 

"I  must  be  strong.  .  .V 

Still,  she  sat  down  limply  on  the  bed,  and  let  her 
head  sink  back.  The  crude  print  of  the  Madonna 
was  before  her.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  prayed. 

The  barefoot  girl  brought  food:  spitted  larks  and 
macaroni,  salty  olives,  goat's-milk  cheese,  red  wine, 
blood  oranges.  Worn  out  by  insistence,  Ghirlaine 
made  a  pretence  of  eating.  The  other,  her  talk  eked 
out  with  pantomime,  ended  by  establishing  a  kind  of 
intercourse. 

Her  name  was  Fannia.  .  .  .  There  was  some  one 
called  Annibale.  ...  He  had  gone  somewhere,  be- 
cause it  was  late  afternoon.  .  .  . 

In  fact,  the  sunshine  on  the  plaster  walls  was  turn- 
ing red.  Ghirlaine  went  to  the  window.  Fannia 
swung  the  shutters  open.  And  nothing  could  have 
been  more  exquisite  than  sea  and  sky  and  island,  at 
this  golden  hour. 

From  that  summit,  which  seemed  to  surmount  the 
world,  the  enveloping  sea  appeared  tilted  up  on  end, 
till  it  rilled  half  the  flushing  sky  with  mingled  gold 
and  amethyst.  Eastward,  the  range  of  peaks  fell 
away  in  giant  steps,  their  salient  surfaces  all  ruddy, 
their  hollows  thick  with  shadows  of  a  smoky  black. 
And  the  declining  sunlight  struck  against  the  amphi- 
theatre of  their  southern  slope,  which  descended 
from  bright  foliage  to  rosy  garden-patches,  and  from 
these  to  the  little  blushing  village  thrown  like  half  a 
garland  round  the  beach.  On  the  farthest  promon- 
tory, low,  incurving,  the  church-tower  blazed  like  a 
tiny  shaft  of  fire. 


1 98  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

She  was  dumfounded  to  find  herself  in  this  high, 
isolated  place,  so  far  from  that  spire,  beneath  which 
she  had  lost  touch  with  reality — which  had  been,  in 
the  midst  of  her  despair,  an  emblem  of  vague  hope. 
But  hope  might  not  reach  across  that  still,  pellucid 
void!  .  .  . 

How  could  the  world  be  so  beautiful,  at  such  a 
moment ! 

The  brown  sail  of  a  felucca  was  wending  home 
across  the  languid  sea.  It  left  behind  it  a  wavering, 
wine-colored  wake.  On  the  strip  of  beach,  black 
dots  were  moving  among  long  lines  of  drying  nets, 
chocolate-colored  and  rose-madder.  After  a  while,  a 
faint  tinkle  stole  through  the  silence.  The  bell  in  the 
church-tower  was  ringing  Vespers? 

So  life  went  on  down  there,  oblivious  to  her 
tragedy! 

She  turned  to  find  Fannia  looking  at  her  with  eager 
eyes. 

"Bella?"  the  girl  demanded,  in  her  deep,  im- 
pulsive voice. 

"Si,  betta.  .  .  ."  But  the  words  caught  in  Ghir- 
laine's  throat. 

She  made  an  inclusive  gesture,  and  asked  her  ques- 
tion mutely.  The  peasant  responded,  with  an  ac- 
cent of  that  pride  which  comes  to  her  kind  at  con- 
templation of  their  own  little  corner  of  the  world, 
however  humble: 

"Turrigianti!" 

"  Turrigianti.  .  .  .     Turrigianti.  .  .  ." 

And  the  success  of  that  exchange  of  thought  im- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  199 

pelled  her  to  a  more  vital  effort.  If  only  she  could 
make  this  honest,  sympathetic  creature  understand 
the  truth! 

Desperately  she  took  Fannia  by  the  shoulders, 
nodded  into  the  house,  shook  her  head  with  a  shudder 
of  horror,  pointed  across  the  sea.  She  was  afraid, 
and  it  was  Fannia  who  must  help  her.  The  girl  re- 
garded her  gravely. 

"Si  si,  Signura.    Pacenza — patience." 

But  Ghirlaine  tried  again.  She  made  motions  that 
described  Sebastian.  She  expressed  her  fear  of  him. 
She  showed  her  hand,  bare  of  a  wedding-ring.  She 
implored  the  girl  anew. 

And  Fannia,  nodding  with  a  look  of  pity,  repeated, 
soothingly: 

"Si,  si.    Pacenza,  Signura.    Pacenza" 

For  a  moment,  Ghirlaine  remained  tense,  quiver- 
ing from  her  impotency.  Then  she  left  the  window, 
and  went  blindly  from  the  room. 

She  passed  through  bare  chambers,  close-shuttered, 
with  white  walls  and  red-tiled  floors.  The  windows 
were  not  glazed.  The  doors  had  no  locks.  The 
house  was  hardly  finished.  One  room  contained 
two  pallets  spread  with  goat-skins.  On  a  home- 
made bracket  tottered  a  dilapidated  image  of  the 
Virgin.  Underneath  was  pinned  a  colored  post- 
card. A  scrap  of  paper! 

Fannia,  who  had  followed,  explained  that  this  was 
her  room  and  Annibale's.  Ghirlaine  pointed  to  the 
card,  and  touched  her  breast.  The  peasant  nodded 
readily,  with  a  flash  of  teeth.  Ghirlaine  whipped  the 


200  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

card  from  the  wall,  hid  it  in  her  dress,  and  made  a 
sign  of  secrecy. 

An  open  door  let  in  the  sunset.  She  found  herself 
beneath  a  portico.  Before  her  lay  a  terrace.  From 
its  edges,  the  sheer  cliffs  plunged  down,  perhaps  three 
hundred  feet,  into  the  waves.  The  terrace  was 
covered  with  intertangled  weeds  and  flowers — rose- 
geraniums,  pink  campion,  asphodels,  heliotropes, 
nasturtiums,  marigolds.  Over  patches  of  sweet  mar- 
joram, bees  were  droning. 

Then  the  hush  was  broken  by  another  sound,  an 
old  man's  voice : 

"Mille  grazie — a  thousand  thanks.  A  rivederla, 
Signer  e.  ..." 

She  glimpsed,  beyond  the  eastern  corner  of  the 
house,  descending  through  the  trees,  a  pair  of  narrow, 
stooped  shoulders  clad  in  greenish-black.  It  was  the 
priest. 

Her  heart  leaped  into  her  throat.  All  at  once,  she 
found  her  strength  again.  Springing  from  the  por- 
tico, she  sped  after  him. 

But  at  the  corner  of  the  house  Sebastian  stepped 
out  before  her. 

In  his  blue  jersey  and  coarse  suit  of  frieze,  his  thick 
neck  bare,  his  black  hair  disordered  by  the  wind,  he 
was  a  more  formidable-looking  figure  than  ever. 
Even  with  her  shock  of  fright,  the  thought  came  to 
Ghirlaine  that  at  last  his  physical  self  was  matched 
by  his  surroundings.  Something  as  violently  bizarre 
as  this  wild  landscape,  as  hard  and  relentless  as  these 
crags,  was  here,  at  last,  revealed  in  him  to  the  ut- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  201 

most.  He  looked  like  one  who  had  finally  come  into 
his  own. 

His  face,  too,  was  pale,  and  rather  more  harshly 
lined  than  usual.  It  would  seem  that  this  triumph 
of  his  had  borne  in  on  him,  also,  a  realization  of  its 
tragedy.  He  had  the  air  of  a  man  who,  in  winning, 
has  lost  everything,  yet,  knowing  that  he  has  lost, 
determines  to  ignore  stoically  the  bitterness  of  that 
defeat,  the  ghastliness  of  the  present  situation,  the 
entire  fact  that  something  unspeakable  has  hap- 
pened. .  .  . 

His  deep-set  eyes  regarded  her  with  the  old  blank- 
ness.  His  voice  was  as  nearly  colorless  as  in  those 
first  days  of  duplicity  and  atrocious  inspiration: 

"Don't  call  him  back.  Poor  old  chap,  the  climb 
up  nearly  did  for  him;  and  now,  as  it  is,  he's  late  for 
Vespers.  But  he  wanted  to  bring  you  these " 

He  dropped  into  her  hand  the  diamond  chain. 

"His  servant  had  forgotten  all  about  them.  She 
took  them  for  beads,  and  put  them  away  in  a  tea-cup. 
It  seems  diamonds  aren't  appreciated  hereabouts." 

She  sent  another  glance  down  the  narrow  path, 
that  lost  itself,  fifty  feet  below,  amid  the  tree- 
trunks.  The  priest's  cassock  had  already  disap- 
peared. But  for  an  instant,  behind  a  screen  of  cac- 
tus, something  moved  stealthily.  .  .  . 

Sebastian  gazed  at  her.  His  mouth  twitched;  his 
dark  face  was  slowly  rilled  with  blood.  At  last,  in 
low  tones,  abruptly: 

"How  are  you  feeling?" 

Her  lips  trembled.     Her  eyelids  drooped.     Her 


202  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

shape  relaxed  in  a  long  quiver.  She  leaned  against 
the  house  wall. 

He  called,  and  Fannia  appeared.  He  gave  her  an 
order  hi  Sicilian.  She  set  out  two  cane  chairs  in  the 
portico.  Ghirlaine  sank  into  one  of  them.  Pres- 
ently, he  took  the  other. 

The  portico  faced  south-west.  On  the  high  ho- 
rizon shone  the  last  splendor  of  the  sunset.  The  sea 
was  a  great  field  of  the  palest  blue,  overlaid  with  a 
myriad  amethyst  and  orange  flecks.  The  sky,  where 
the  sun  had  just  sunk  into  the  waves,  showed  an 
intense  rose-pink  that  merged,  with  the  most  deli- 
cate gradation,  into  a  pale-green  zenith.  A  hand's- 
breadth  above  the  sky-line,  extended  one  thin, 
straight  streak  of  mauve. 

The  murmur  of  the  waves  had  ceased.  The  foliage 
stood  motionless.  The  bees  had  left  the  flowers. 
All  the  world  was  waiting,  breathless,  for  the  night. 
And  the  sweetness  of  many  blossoms  enveloped 
them,  like  a  subtle  presage — a  sickening  mockery. 

She  remained  motionless,  scarcely  breathing. 
What  could  she  hope  for,  from  the  man  who  had 
made  this  scene  reality?  What  words  could  she  find 
to  move  him  with,  when  her  wits  were  crushed, 
when  her  very  personality  seemed  annihilated?  And 
what  cuhnination  was  he  planning  to  reveal  to  her, 
as  he  looked  out  across  the  sea,  with  sombre  eyes  ? 

When  he  spoke,  she  had  once  more  a  feeling  of  illu- 
sion. For  he  merely  said: 

"You  must  forgive  these  clothes.  I'll  do  better 
for  you  soon.  And  these  accommodations.  .  .  . 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  203 

"  I  hope  you  could  eat  the  food.  I  broiled  the  larks 
myself.  If  I  had  a  chafing-dish,  or  a  couple  of  decent 
sauce-pans,  I'd  put  together  some  plats  that  might 
even  have  interested  Monsieur  Hamel,  in  the  palmy 
days  of  the  Grand  Vefour.  As  for  Fannia,  I  fear 
she'd  never  be  enough  of  a  cordon  bleu  to  charm 
either  of  us.  ... 

"And  by  the  way,  stick  to  wine  and  coffee. 
There's  a  spring  down  the  hill,  but  brackish.  Only 
fit  for  bathing.  You'll  find  a  new  wooden  tub,  of 
sorts,  in  the  alcove  by  your  room.  Annibale  has 
orders  to  fill  it  every  evening.  He's  out  with  his 
buckets  now.  I  suspect  he  thinks  we  must  be  insane 
to  want  it.  But  I  forget  you  don't  know  Annibale. 

"He  and  Fannia  have  been  using  this  place  for 
eight  months  and  more,  as  a  stronghold  against  local 
public  opinion.  She's  the  daughter  of  the  old  rascal 
we  came  ashore  with.  His  family  and  Annibale's 
have  been  enemies  for  half  a  century.  They're  not 
quite  sure  what  commenced  it.  Our  man  thinks  it 
was  some  matter  of  a  chicken-crate. 

"Annibale's  an  orphan — but  don't  pity  him  on 
that  account!  He  decided  one  day  that  he  wanted 
to  many  Fannia.  He  used  to  loaf  under  her  win- 
dow after  midnight.  She  fell  in  love  with  his  looks. 

"Old  Ilario,  when  he  got  wind  of  this,  tried  to 
shove  a  knife  into  Annibale,  a  Sunday  morning  after 
Mass.  Ilario,  it  seems,  intended  to  marry  Fannia 
to  the  post-office  clerk — a  brilliant  match.  Anni- 
bale took  the  knife  away  from  Ilario  in  front  of  all 
the  village;  and  next  evening  he  took  away  Ilario's 


204  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

daughter.  For  baggage,  he  had  a  rifle  that  I  should 
hesitate  to  explode,  and  she  had  her  coperta  del  letto 
matrimoniale,  her  wedding-counterpane,  that  she'd 
been  working  on  since  she  was  twelve  years  old. 
Perhaps  you've  noticed  it  on  your  bed. 

"She  had  the  counterpane,  that  is,  but  not  the 
wedding.  To  come  down  to  be  married  would  prob- 
ably have  been  the  death  of  several  people.  The 
priest  was  a  reasonable  soul,  however:  he  stood  ready 
to  waive  ceremony  and  come  up.  But  Ilario 
wouldn't  give  consent. 

"So  they  stayed  on  as  they  were.  Every  week  or 
so,  in  the  day-time,  Annibale  has  to  shoot  off  his  rifle 
at  Ilario,  to  discourage  him  from  sneaking  up  the  hill- 
side. At  night,  no  one  would  think  of  trying  it. 
There's  a  superstition  down  there  that  this  place  is 
full  of  ghosts,  as  soon  as  dusk  sets  in.  I  haven't 
seen  them.  Neither  has  Fannia  or  Annibale.  All 
the  same,  they're  both  convinced  the  ghosts  exist. 
But  there's  no  choice  between  invisible  phantoms 
and  the  thought  of  losing  each  other.  They're  still 
lovers,  apparently.  And  I  think  they've  been  very 
happy  here. 

"Annibale  cultivates  a  vegetable-patch.  Fannia 
gathers  wild  grapes  and  olives,  and  makes  oil  and 
wine.  From  time  to  time  one  of  his  friends  would 
slip  half-way  up  the  path  and  leave  a  few  luxuries — 
matches,  cigarettes,  a  piece  of  brown  sugar,  an  egg  or 
two.  They  didn't  starve.  But  our  arrival  was  de- 
cidedly a  fall  of  luck  for  them.  From  present  indi- 
cations, the  only  thing  to  drag  them  down  now  will 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  205 

be  the  necessity  of  baptizing  the  baby.  The  baby, 
of  course,  will  have  to  be  baptized  no  matter  who 
dies  for  it.  ...  They  might  ask  us  to  stand  god- 
parents!" 

She  turned  her  head,  to  stare  with  wild  eyes  at 
this  being  who,  at  such  an  hour,  could  talk  so. 
Surely,  this  was  the  fiendish  cruelty  of  a  cat  playing 
with  a  captured  mouse! 

No  doubt  he  read  her  thoughts.  His  face  changed. 
He  stood  up,  and  paced  among  the  flowers  of  the  ter- 
race. His  head  bent,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back,  he  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  a  desire  to 
speak,  to  show  her  his  real  thoughts,  to  make  a  pro- 
fession that  both  of  them  were  afraid  to  hear.  .  .  . 
All  he  said  was: 

"Roses,  too.  .  .  .  One  might  train  them  to  climb 
that  lemon-tree,  and  cover  it  with  pink,  in  time.  .  .  . 
But  Annibale  must  clear  out  all  these  thistles.  .  .  . 
And  build  a  fence  round  the  edge.  ..." 

He  turned  to  fix  his  sombre  eyes  on  hers. 

"I  beg  of  you  not  to  walk  out  here  in  the  dark." 

Her  heart  beat  faster.  A  strange  light  must  have 
leaped  into  her  eyes.  After  a  time,  without  replying, 
she  leaned  her  head  against  the  chair-back,  and 
averted  her  face. 

The  zenith  was  changing  to  the  greenish-blue  of 
turquoises.  Low  in  the  west,  an  orange  glow  was 
fading.  The  long  ribbon  of  clouds,  a  hand-breadth 
above  the  horizon,  had  turned  from  mauve  to  purple. 
And  purple  shadows  were  creeping  in,  from  either 
side,  across  the  sea. 


206  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

He  said,  in  a  dull  voice: 

"I'll  leave  you  to  yourself.  If  you  want  Fannia, 
clap  your  hands." 

He  hesitated,  before  concluding: 

"She  has  instructions  to  sleep  in  a  corner  of  your 
room  to-night.  Or,  if  you  prefer,  outside  your 
door.  .  .  ." 

He  went  into  the  house. 

And  Ghirlaine  continued  to  look  out  across  the 
western  sea. 

All  the  world  lay  beyond  that  far  horizon.  As  its 
radiance  grew  dim,  the  last  of  hope,  and  even  life 
itself,  seemed  fading. 

There  stood  forth  for  an  instant,  and  then  shredded 
away,  vistas  of  great  rooms  lined  with  mirrors, 
paintings,  gilding,  where  old  chandeliers  let  down 
their  blaze  and  glitter  above  jewel-crowned  heads, 
silver  epaulets,  satin  and  brocade,  snowy  arms,  red, 
smiling  lips.  Faces  flashed  forth — Mme.  de  Chau- 
mont's,  containing  pitiable  secrets,  Sangallo's,  full  of 
a  mysterious  comprehension,  Princess  Campobasso's, 
as  it  had  looked  when  the  words  broke  from  her,  "To 
be  seized,  to  be  carried  away,  by  some  one  who  is 
really  strong.  ..."  Mme.  Semadeni's  inscrutable 
smile  was  last  of  all  to  go:  but  something  of  her — a 
suggestion  of  the  perfume  she  affected,  a  tone  of  the 
sea  that  was  like  the  murmur  of  her  voice — remained, 
as  it  had  remained  ever  since  that  afternoon  in  the 
palm-garden  of  the  Excelsior,  when  she  had  uttered, 
"This  is  strange.  There  is  some  sort  of  bond  be- 
tween you  and  me.  ..."  Only  Vincent  Pamfort's 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  207 

countenance  failed  to  drift  before  her  vision.  She 
strove  to  see  it.  With  a  great  effort,  she  succeeded. 
.  .  .  She  sank  back  with  a  low  cry. 

"What  a  nightmare!    What  a  nightmare!" 

Still,  something  within  kept  reproaching  her  for 
the  collapse  of  all  her  old,  habitual  courage.  To  the 
rest  this  crowning  injury  was  added,  of  finding  herself 
no  longer  an  individual.  At  the  supreme  test,  she, 
who  had  always  gloried  in  her  bravery  and  self-reli- 
ance, lay  prostrate,  utterly  disarmed  of  ingenuity 
and  strength! 

A  convulsive  reaction  brought  her  to  her  feet. 
Swiftly,  she  went  down  through  the  flowers,  came  to 
the  edge,  and  peered  over  the  precipice. 

Far  below,  the  water  swelled  lazily  against  the 
shell-encrusted  rocks. 

Her  head  swam;  an  invisible  force  seemed  to 
strain  suddenly  at  her  equilibrium.  With  a  wrench 
backward,  she  saved  herself.  Retreating,  her  knees 
weak,  her  forehead  wet  and  cold,  she  whispered: 

"Not  yet!" 

And  she  turned  to  stare  round  her,  at  the  blank 
windows  of  the  villa,  at  the  enveloping,  still  foliage, 
and  at  the  path,  already  shadowy,  descending 
through  the  trees. 

And  there,  from  behind  a  cactus  hedge  some  dis- 
tance down  the  slope,  she  saw,  spying  out  at  her,  a 
face,  a  young  face  half  covered  with  a  mop  of  tan- 
gled hair — the  face  of  the  youth  who  had  been 
with  them  in  the  fishing-boat. 

An  answer  to  her  prayers? 


208  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

His  face  disappeared.  But  she  knew  he  was  still 
there.  She  made  a  stealthy  sign  for  him  to  stay, 
and  ran  into  the  house. 

To  send  a  message  out  to  that  world  beyond  the 
sea! 

She  remembered  the  post-card  hidden  in  her  dress. 
But  pen  and  ink?  Or  a  pencil?  Her  room  was 
empty  of  such  things. 

On  the  deal  table  stood  the  soiled  plates,  the  straw- 
covered  flask,  a  tumbler  of  thick  red  wine.  On  the 
floor  she  found  the  end  of  a  wax  match.  With  bated 
breath,  listening  for  the  slightest  sound,  she  dipped 
the  match-end  in  the  wine,  and  wrote  laboriously, 
across  the  blank  space  of  the  post-card: 

A  prisoner  on  Turrigianti.  The  house  on  the  headland. 
Ghirlaine  Bellamy. 

To  whom?  To  Vincent?  Too  far!  Sangallo? 
And  what  address?  But  every  one  in  Rome  would 
know  Sangallo. 

Ernesto  Sangallo,  Roma.  .  .  . 

The  moment  it  was  dry,  she  slipped  out,  and  down 
the  path. 

The  spy  had  made  off.  But  she  heard  a  rustling 
farther  down  the  hillside.  She  found  him  wriggling 
through  a  clump  of  aloes.  As  he  sprang  to  his  feet 
for  headlong  flight,  she  caught  him  by  the  arm. 
The  leaves  concealed  them. 

He  glared  at  her  like  a  wild  animal  entrapped,  with 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  209 

mingled  fear  and  animosity,  yet  with  another  emo- 
tion also  smouldering  in  his  small,  savage  eyes. 
His  nostrils  expanded,  his  bronzed  chest  heaved  be- 
neath the  wreck  of  a  striped  jersey.  He  was  under- 
sized, almost  emaciated,  but  covered  with  lean 
muscles.  From  his  trousers  pocket  protruded  the 
bone  handle  of  a  knife. 

Nevertheless,  he  must  be  the  instrument  of  her 
salvation! 

She  thrust  the  post-card  into  his  hand.  Her  gest- 
ures explained  her  wish,  and  the  necessity  of  silence. 
When  he  had  understood  that  much,  he  slowly  raised 
his  shoulders,  and  let  a  look  of  sullen  indifference 
cross  his  face.  He  muttered: 

"Eh!    Ma  cu  paga?" 

With  a  short,  violent  movement,  he  pointed  to  the 
corner  of  the  post-card,  where  a  stamp  ought  to 
have  been  affixed. 

' ' Cu  paga ?    Cu  paga  il  francubullu ?    Eh!" 

She  took  out  the  diamond  chain,  and  pointed  to  his 
knife-hilt.  Reluctantly,  he  drew  the  weapon  from 
his  pocket,  watched  her  for  a  moment  in  distrust, 
then  snapped  forth  the  long  spring-blade.  With  the 
point  she  pried  loose  a  diamond,  and  shook  it  into 
his  hand.  Would  he  understand  its  value? 

When  she  had  put  the  chain  back  into  her  bosom, 
his  gaze,  which  remained  fixed  with  an  almost  terrific 
covetousness  on  her  breast,  apprised  her  that  he, 
at  least,  knew  what  diamonds  were.  And  too  late 
she  saw  that  his  face  was  strangely  crooked,  one  eye 
higher  than  the  other,  his  mouth  cruel  and  false, 


210  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

about  all  his  features,  at  that  instant,  a  look  of  thor- 
oughly mature  depravity.  The  visage  of  a  criminal 
degenerate! 

He  held  the  open  knife  in  one  hand,  the  diamond 
in  the  other.  He  looked  at  her,  looked  down  at  the 
weapon  and  the  jewel  as  if  weighing  them,  looked 
round  him  with  a  swift,  stealthy  eagerness,  like  a 
cat's.  But  he  heard  some  sound,  and  saw  the  trees 
all  thick  with  dusk.  He  started,  glared  about  him 
fearsomely,  and  scrambled  down  the  hillside. 

Frightened,  almost  despairing,  but  hoping  against 
hope,  she  called  after  him  the  entreaty: 

"To-night?" 

He  threw  up  one  hand,  and  disappeared.  She 
turned  back. 

Near  the  summit,  she  came  on  Annibale,  running 
down  noiselessly,  bent  double,  rifle  in  hand.  When 
he  saw  her  he  stopped  short,  stood  erect,  and  touched 
his  forehead.  In  full,  grave  tones,  he  uttered  some 
remonstrance. 

She  went  on  to  the  villa. 

From  the  portico  she  looked  toward  the  west  again. 

Was  her  effort  to  succeed?  Would  rescue  come? 
Was  she  to  find  again,  hi  time,  the  world  beyond 
that  sea?  .  .  . 

Twilight  unrolled  across  the  heavens,  swiftly,  like 
a  spangled  veil. 

She  entered  the  house.  With  lighted  candle 
Fannia  appeared,  changed  from  the  afternoon,  mute 
and  impassive  now.  Worn  out  by  emotion,  Ghir- 
laine  let  the  girl  undress  her. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  211 

On  her  narrow  bed,  _covered  with  the  peasant's 
marriage-counterpane,  she  heard  the  night  breeze 
spring  up  among  the  branches.  The  waves  resumed 
their  murmur.  Presently,  she  was  listening  to  his 
footfalls  in  the  portico. 

Deliberate  and  heavy,  they  approached  her  win- 
dow. They  paused,  then  receded.  .  .  . 

They  approached  again,  and  again  receded.  .  .  . 

That  sound  went  on  for  hours. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SEBASTIAN,  sitting  in  the  sunny  portico,  heard 
Annibale  and  Fannia  talking  somewhere  in  the  house. 
The  girl's  voice  came  distinctly  through  the  silence: 

"I  always  thought  I'd  be  afraid  of  a  mad  person." 

"Why  so?  The  hermit  is  mad;  but  who's  afraid 
of  him?  Besides,  this  Signura's  only  half-mad,  evi- 
dently. All  foreigners  are  that." 

"But  why  should  a  rich  lady  want  my  post-card 
of  Girgenti?" 

"  Cuspettu!  Are  you  asking  me  now  to  find  reasons 
for  what  a  woman  wants?" 

"Then  she  pointed  to  her  wedding  ringer,  and  made 
signs  that  she  was  afraid  of  the  Padruni." 

"Probably  her  ring  slipped  off  hi  the  sea,  and  she's 
afraid  that  when  he  finds  it  out  he'll  beat  her." 

"Mai  'cchiu!  Do  big  pieces  beat  their  wives,  like 
common  folk?" 

"Why  not!  I  take  it  ladies  are  also  women. 
Being  women,  they  must  often  need  a  beating. 
That's  reasoning!" 

Presently,  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone: 

"As  for  all  that,  who  knows  anything?  What  he 
has  told  me  is  probably  all  lies.  Who  tells  the  truth, 
in  this  world,  if  he  can  help  it?  Perhaps  he's  running 
away  from  something.  He  looks  like  a  great  thief, 
anyway,  who  would  as  soon  kill  a  man  as  a  mos- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  213 

quito.  Perhaps  she  isn't  his  wife  at  all.  What 
business  is  that  of  ours?  We  eat,  and  get  wages. 
Only,  if  things  begin  to  go  wrong  with  us,  and  it 
turns  out  that  he  has  the  evil  eye,  it's  easy  enough 
to  slip  and  fall  against  him,  some  day  when  he  and  I 
are  looking  over  the  cliffs  together.  ..." 

"Do  you  want  to  spend  the  rest  of  your  life  in  the 
ergastulu?" 

"An  accident  is  an  accident.  I  should  steal  noth- 
ing. We  could  weep  and  tear  our  hair  in  front  of 
the  woman,  and  she  would  pardon  us." 

"Che!  Leave  tricks,  when  tricks  are  necessary,  to 
us  others.  Men  are  nothing  but  children,  after 
aU.  .  .  ." 

Sebastian  could  not  refrain  from  grinning.  This 
revelation  of  character  diverted  him.  He  felt 
no  indignation.  These  people  were  merely  them- 
selves. .  .  . 

Fannia  spoke  again,  reflectively: 

"How  long  did  he  say  they  had  been  married?" 

"Two  years,  three  years — what  do  I  know?" 

"There  is  one  lie,  at  least.  For  she  has  never  had 
any  children." 

"Who  says  that?" 

"  I  say  it.     I  who  see  her  in  her  room." 

A  silence.    At  length,  she  continued: 

"What  was  she  doing  when  you  found  her  down 
the  hillside?" 

"Who  knows?  Still,  after  she'd  come  up,  I  saw  a 
man  in  a  striped  jersey  running  away.  I  could  have 
shot  him.  But  nowadays,  when  our  stomachs  are 


214  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

full  of  food,  one  thinks  twice  of  stirring  up  the  cara- 
bineers for  nothing.  Besides,  it  wasn't  your  father. 
It  looked  like  Nino  with  the  crooked  eyes." 

"Little  Nino!  It  would  be  a  new  thing  for  him  to 
spy  on  us." 

"Times  are  changed.  There's  money  in  the  house. 
And  Nino  has  been  to  Naples.  They  even  say  that 
when  he  was  in  Naples  he  became  an  apprentice  to 
the  Camorra." 

"Who  says  so?" 

After  a  while,  Annibale's  voice  responded,  sullenly : 

"No  one.  I  should  be  a  fine  fool  to  gossip  with  a 
woman!" 

"  Eh !    And  who  could  I  tell  it  to,  up  here ! " 

"See  that  you  don't,  all  the  same.  .  .  ." 

"Maybe  it  wasn't  Nino.  Perhaps  it  was  one  of 
the  Old  Ones?" 

"No  doubt — in  a  striped  jersey!  Madrecidda, 
what  a  lot  of  empty  chattering!  Wages  to  earn, 
supper  to  cook,  and  no  fagots  in  the  kitchen!" 

"These  days  I  can't  bring  in  the  load  I  used  to." 

"Ah.  .  .  .  Puviredda — poor  little  one,  I  keep  for- 
getting! Stay  here.  I'll  fetch  them  for  you.  .  .  ." 

And  Annibale,  clad  in  undershirt  and  trousers, 
came  out  on  the  portico. 

When  he  saw  Sebastian  sitting  near  an  open  win- 
dow, he  looked  confused.  But  the  other  bade  him 
take  a  chair.  The  young  man's  startlingly  handsome 
face  regained  its  service-expression,  of  grave  dignity 
and  self-respect.  Lowering  his  powerful  body,  with 
a  deprecatory  gesture,  into  the  seat,  he  accepted  a 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  215 

cigarette  as  courteously  as  a  prince.  His  large, 
brown  feet  planted  firmly  on  the  pavement,  he 
awaited  conversation. 

"  Annibale,  all  this  talk  of  ghosts  is  interesting  me." 

"Truly,  Signuri?  But  perhaps  there  are  none  in 
Russia?" 

"Only  ordinary  ones,  that  tip  tables,  and  rattle 
tambourines." 

"  Mah!    They  must  have  little  to  do ! " 

"And  how  do  these  amuse  themselves?" 

"Should  I  know?  They  lead  their  life,  as  they 
have  since  the  beginning.  For  they've  always  been 
here,  the  Old  Ones.  They're  a  part  of  Turrigianti, 
like  its  rocks.  The  tale  runs " 

He  reflected,  then  looked  at  Sebastian  askance,  as 
if  measuring  his  courage. 

"  Would  your  Excellency  care  to  see  their  dwelling- 
place?" 

"If  it  doesn't  affect  you  too  unpleasantly." 

"Ah,  Signuri,  I've  lived  near  them  these  nine 
months!  Besides,  the  sun's  still  high.  And  we 
can  stay  hidden  in  the  trees.  Only,  we  mustn't  let 
Fannia  know — or  the  Signura.  Women  don't  under- 
stand the  pleasures  of  danger." 

"No?" 

"But  of  course  not,  Signuri.  And  very  fortu- 
nately. If  God  had  not  made  them  that  way,  there 
would  be  no  holding  them  at  all!" 

He  took  his  rifle  from  inside  the  door,  and  led  the 
way  round  the  house,  toward  the  northern  ridge. 

Back  of  the  villa,  the  vegetation  appeared  impen- 


216  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

etrable.  Branches  and  roots  of  wild-olive  were  in- 
terlaced like  the  limbs  of  wrestlers.  Old  vines,  of 
grape,  and  rose-convolvulus,  spread  everywhere  a 
net-work  of  mature  festoons.  And  each  short  vista, 
between  the  walls  of  green,  was  obscured  by  a  mass 
of  cactus-spikes,  a  rampart  of  dagger-leaved  agaves, 
or  a  screen  of  roses  clinging  to  the  bark  of  cork- 
trees. 

But  Annibale  found  a  tortuous  passage  through 
this  labyrinth.  They  emerged  suddenly  on  the 
northern  cliffs. 

The  guide  pointed  over  the  precipice.  Below,  the 
sea  was  bright  with  foam. 

"  Caves  are  down  there." 

"I  saw  them  as  we  came  in.  A  damp  place,  even 
for  ghosts." 

"Oh,  the  Old  Ones  live  better  than  that!" 

He  led  the  way  eastward  along  the  edge.  Sebas- 
tian found  himself  descending  the  sheer  side  of  the 
crags,  by  a  path,  not  two  feet  wide,  carved  out  of 
the  living  rock  in  steps. 

"Who  made  this  path?" 

Annibale,  turning,  on  that  airy  ledge,  indifferent 
to  the  peril  of  his  position,  explained: 

"Signuri,  it's  always  been  here.  It  runs  along  the 
north  side,  to  a  point  above  the  town.  But  I've 
never  troubled  to  guard  it.  To  come  at  the  villa  by 
this  way,  one  would  have  to  pass  too  close  to  Them." 

He  resumed  his  course. 

Before  them,  the  path  continued  to  descend  grad- 
ually for  a  space,  then,  as  the  cliffs  rose  higher  again, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  217 

ascended.  At  its  dip,  there  appeared  through  the 
foliage  a  tiny  valley,  running  back  inland,  and  occu- 
pied by  some  sort  of  crumbling  stone  structure.  But 
Annibale  stopped,  crossed  himself,  and  put  a  finger 
to  his  lips. 

"There,  Signuri,"  he  whispered.  "The  home  of 
the  Old  Ones." 

"Then  let's  get  on,  and  have  a  look  at  it." 

"Go  farther!" 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  we  should  never  come  back." 

He  moistened  his  lips. 

"Signuri,  I  can  see  that  you  are  brave  enough  to 
try  it;  but  you  don't  know  that  the  Old  Ones  are  not 
to  be  defied  like  men.  In  my  grandfather's  time, 
that  was  finally  understood  for  good.  A  sailor  came 
home  to  Turrigianti,  after  seeing  the  world.  His  first 
act  was  to  laugh  at  us,  for  still  respecting  the  Old 
Ones.  So,  to  show  us  what  fools  we  were,  he  came 
up  here,  as  he  said  to  make  an  end  of  silly  super- 
stitions. My  grandfather  saw  him  go  into  that 
house.  But  no  one  ever  saw  him  come  out  again.  .  .  . 

"Eh,  when  the  priest  heard  it — if  he  was  angry! 
He  came  up  stamping,  in  his  vestments,  with  holy 
water,  to  exorcise  the  spirits — or  to  discover  what 
had  happened  to  the  other.  He  went  in  praying. 
Teh!  He  never  came  out.  .  .  .  That  taught  us  our 
lesson." 

A  gust  of  wind  set  all  the  branches  swaying.  Far 
below,  a  wave  broke  against  the  rocks. 

"  Signuri,  when  the  world  was  new,  Turrigianti  was 


218  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

the  first  home  of  men  and  gods.  For  that  reason  its 
ancient  name  is  the  Isle  of  Life.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
Garden  of  Eden?  .  .  . 

"At  any  rate,  when  our  blessed  Lord  and  Saviour, 
Jesus  Christ,  visited  this  earth,  all  the  old  gods  of  the 
heathen  ran  away.  It's  said  they  came  back  here, 
where  they'd  been  born,  to  hide.  That  they  are  the 
Old  Ones.  That  God  allows  them  this  little  corner 
for  their  own,  out  of  pity  for  their  downfall. 

"Who  knows  for  sure?  But  sometimes  people 
have  heard  them,  inside  their  house,  talking  together 
with  big  soft  voices  in  a  strange  language,  and  cry- 
ing. ...  I  heard  them  once  myself.  .  .  .  Shall  we 
be  going  home?" 

"You  are  going  home,  Annibale,  to  gather  Fannia's 
fagots.  I'll  follow  this  path  to  the  village." 

"Signuri!" 

Annibale's  face  turned  pale.  With  a  passionate 
gesture,  he  put  out  his  arm,  to  block  the  narrow  way. 
The  other,  smiling,  remonstrated: 

"There's  no  room  here  to  get  excited.  Stand 
against  the  wall.  Those  are  my  orders." 

For  a  moment  Annibale  gazed  at  him  wildly,  as 
if  planning  disobedience.  Then  his  face,  altering, 
showed,  perhaps,  something  of  the  fatalism  of  remote 
Arab  ancestors. 

"Pass,  Signuri,"  he  uttered  quietly,  and  stood 
back. 

Sebastian  slid  round  him,  and  descended  to  the 
valley. 

There,  in  a  nest  of  sunny  green,  drowsed  the  ruin 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  219 

of  a  small  Doric  temple,  Round  it,  some  broken 
columns,  moss-covered,  lay  like  fallen  tree-trunks 
amid  the  brambles.  But  the  walls  themselves,  of 
massive,  uncemented  blocks,  with  crevices  full  of 
grass,  stood  firm.  Even  the  roof,  beneath  its  thatch 
of  flowers,  seemed  intact. 

He  approached  the  narrow  doorway.  Within,  a 
stone  screen,  reaching  from  pavement  to  ceiling,  hid 
the  sanctuary.  He  put  foot  upon  the  threshold. 

' '  Signuri !    Signuri ! ' ' 

It  was  Annibale,  calling  out  from  the  cliffs,  in 
desperation. 

Sebastian  stepped  inside. 

And,  from  the  blackness,  there  issued  a  sound  as  if 
of  giants  stirring  in  their  sleep,  mumbling  deep,  unin- 
telligible messages. 

"Curious!  There  must  be  an  echo-well  in  here, 
that  leads  down  to  the  sea?  " 

But  remembering  the  sailor  and  the  priest,  he  did 
not  advance  at  once. 

With  one  foot  firmly  planted  near  the  threshold, 
he  tried  the  great  blocks  of  pavement  cautiously. 
He  found  all  firm  before  the  screen,  stepped  round  it, 
and  struck  a  match.  A  dry  rattling  re-echoed,  as 
lizards  ran  into  the  corners.  And  again  that  sound, 
as  of  monstrous  voices,  burst  forth  with  an  articu- 
lation weirdly  human. 

But  there  was  nothing  in  the  temple  save  some 
loose  fragments  of  stone,  and  a  low  altar  set  against 
the  rear  wall. 

"Not  even  bones?  Then  of  course,  the  floor's  the 
answer." 


220  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Stooping  down,  he  blew  away  the  dust,  and  eyed 
the  cracks.  From  the  corner  he  rolled  out  a  weighty 
rock,  and  pushed  it  forward  upon  one  end  of  a  broad 
slab  of  pavement. 

In  a  flash,  the  slab  swung  perpendicular  on  its  axis. 
At  either  side  yawned  an  inky  pit.  With  a  terrific 
rumble,  and  to  a  roar  like  daimonic  laughter,  the 
rock  dropped  into  the  depths.  Instantly,  the  slab 
crashed  back  into  place.  The  floor  was  smooth 
again. 

"By  George!    Not  bad,  after  all  these  centuries!" 

When  he  had  proved  the  pavement  elsewhere,  he 
examined  the  altar. 

Small,  like  a  box  set  up  on  end,  rough-hewn,  still 
showing  chisel-marks,  its  top  was  hollowed  out, 
where  once  a  sacrificial  fire  had  burned  to  some 
divinity.  On  its  front,  letters  were  graven.  And 
Sebastian  finally  made  out  archaic  Greek  characters: 


"To  the  Unknown  God.  .  .  ." 

For  a  time,  he  contemplated  this  relic  of  long-dead 
devotion  —  this  symbol  of  mankind's  perpetual  hope, 
blind  and  yet  constant,  born,  as  it  were,  in  darkness, 
yet  rising  perennially  through  the  shades  in  search  of 
light.  His  match  went  out.  The  sanctuary  was  en- 
gulfed in  blackness.  And  the  mysterious  voices, 
issuing  from  the  region  of  the  altar,  beat  round  him 
like  the  voices  of  immortals  who,  for  thousands  of 
years,  in  that  solitude,  had  reiterated  patiently  the 
same  cryptic  message,  while  waiting  for  his  coming. 

Sebastian  smiled  grimly. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  221 

"Clever  old  devils!  They  must  have  made  a  fat 
thing  of  this,  once  on  a  time." 

He  struck  a  fresh  match,  and  returned  to  the 
doorway. 

Before  the  temple,  in  the  sunshine,  crouched  Anni- 
bale.  His  face  was  distorted  by  a  conflict  of  terror 
and  courage.  Quivering  all  over,  he  was  on  the 
point  of  springing  forward.  But  when  he  saw  Sebas- 
tian on  the  threshold,  his  jaws  sank  down. 

"Annibale,  I  thought  you  were  going  home?" 

' '  Sanguinacciu ! ' ' 

"  Since  you're  still  here,  come  in,  and  let  me  intro- 
duce you  to  the  Old  Ones." 

The  young  man  pulled  himself  together  with  a 
shudder.  Then,  after  a  long  look  into  the  other's 
eyes,  he  followed  through  the  doorway. 

Sebastian  demonstrated  the  mechanism  of  the  pit- 
fall, illuminated  the  altar,  exposed  the  echo-well  be- 
hind it.  Still,  Annibale  could  not  realize  the  facts. 
At  last,  however,  his  blank  visage  developed  a  pro- 
found chagrin,  humiliation,  and,  possibly,  regret. 

"Only  that!" 

And  presently,  in  a  whisper: 

"  Signuri,  it  must  never  be  known,  this  disgrace  to 
Turrigianti!" 

"Especially,  as  it  would  bring  the  villa  much  too 
near  the  town." 

"Eccu!    It  must  never  be  known!" 

He  touched  the  altar  gingerly. 

"What  does  the  writing  say,  Signuri?" 

"That  men  have  always  been  fools." 


222  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Then,  pri  Baccu,  there's  some  truth  in  this  place, 
after  all!" 

They  returned  to  the  sunshine. 

"Expect  me  back  at  nightfall,  Annibale.  .  .  ." 

Leaving  him  in  a  daze,  Sebastian  resumed  his  way 
along  the  cliff-side,  eastward. 

The  ledge-like  path  again  clung  to  the  face  of  those 
gigantic  ramparts.  At  one  point,  it  expanded  into  a 
platform.  Beyond,  it  dwinolled  quickly  to  its  former 
breadth,  where  a  careless  step  would  mean  destruc- 
tion. But  abruptly  it  ascended  to  the  summit.  Se- 
bastian gained  the  rim  of  Torregiante's  natural  am- 
phitheatre. Below  him,  to  the  south,  there  fell  away 
the  wooded  slope,  to  meet  the  little  cultivated  fields, 
which,  hi  their  turn,  ran  down  to  the  crescent  of  the 
village  and  the  beach. 

While  preparing  to  descend,  he  noticed  on  the 
eastern  heights,  directly  across  the  island  from  the 
villa,  one  lonely  hut.  The  hermit,  no  doubt? 

He  went  down  the  hillside. 

In  these  groves,  stunted  firs  brushed  pomegranates, 
stone-pines  overshadowed  the  red  trunks  of  pillaged 
cork-trees,  here  and  there  a  pale  shaft  of  lignum  vitae 
rose  amid  the  silver-green  of  olives.  Through  the 
still  air  came  a  bird-like  twittering — the  music  of  a 
pipe.  And  in  a  rocky  clearing  Sebastian  saw  a  flock 
of  thin,  brown  goats,  with  abnormally  developed 
udders,  bells  tinkling  at  their  necks. 

Near  by,  on  the  grass,  a  half -naked  child  sat  watch- 
ing them,  as  wildly  beautiful  as  a  faun.  His  sun- 
bleached  hair  streamed  down  over  his  large,  lustrous 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  223 

eyes.  He  was  playing  ofl  a  flute  of  donax-reeds — 
just  such  an  instrument  as  might  have  roused  the 
echoes  of  this  spot  when  nymphs  and  satyrs  were  be- 
lieved to  dwell  here. 

"Good-evening,  Pan,"  said  Sebastian. 

The  child,  his  eyes  darkening  curiously,  regarded 
the  stranger  without  winking.  The  goats  raised 
their  malevolently  cunning  faces,  and  all  stood  mo- 
tionless. 

"My  name  is  not  Pan,  Signuri." 

"No?" 

"No,  Signuri.    My  name  is  Little  Paganni." 

"And  I  am  the  Signuri  from  the  Place-Up-There." 

"So  every  one  knows,"  the  child  responded  slowly, 
and  made  a  stealthy  gesture  behind  his  back.  Sebas- 
tian smiled. 

"  Why  do  you  do  that,  Little  Paganni?  You  think 
I  have  the  evil  eye?" 

Again  the  small  goatherd's  irises  changed  color. 
Without  moving,  his  body  seemed  subtly  to  recoil. 
But  his  little  brown  fingers  gripped  the  donax-flute 
more  tightly,  as  he  retorted : 

"So  they  say,  Signuri." 

"That's  something  to  know!" 

"Sissignvri.     Such  things  are  good  to  know." 

Sebastian  tossed  him  some  coppers. 

"At  least,  my  money  won't  bring  you  bad  luck?" 

"No,  Signuri.  For  if  it  stuck  to  money,  my  fa- 
ther wouldn't  have  taken  his  twenty  lire  from  you." 

"So!  And  who  is  your  father,  Little  Paganni? 
Isitoldllario?" 


224  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Old  Ilario!  Ma  'cche!  My  father  is  Big  Pa- 
ganni." 

"And,  by  any  chance,  is  Nino  with  the  crooked 
eyes  your  brother?  " 

"Nino?  Nino  is  nobody's  brother.  He  is  a  for- 
eigner. He  has  been  to  the  end  of  the  world — to 
Naples,  even.  He  writes  letters  to  Naples,  and  they 
go  by  the  ship.  He  wrote  one  last  night." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Eh,  when  one  writes  a  letter,  everybody  knows! 
Why  not?" 

"Little  Paganni,  to  talk  with  you  is  well  worth  the 
money." 

"For  me  too,  Signuri.  Now  I  can  buy  an  amulet 
against  the  evil  eye." 

"A  sensible  idea,  since  we  might  meet  frequently. 
...  To  see  you  again,  Pan." 

"To  see  you  again,  Signuri,"  the  child  answered, 
with  mature  composure. 

Sebastian  went  on  his  way. 

Soon  the  trees  gave  place  to  grape-vines,  straggling 
in  low  bushes.  Cornfields  appeared,  bright  with 
Sciacca  lilies  and  poppies.  Finally,  in  shallow  ter- 
races, came  the  garden  patches,  over  which  hovered 
a  blue-and-yellow  mist  of  butterflies. 

But  below,  spread  out  the  crazy  roofs,  the  cracked 
house-walls  streaked  below  the  windows,  the  stair- 
cases ending  in  garbage-heaps,  near  which,  through 
mingled  refuse  and  wild  flowers,  wandered  some  bony, 
dejected-looking  donkeys.  The  freshened  east  wind 
spread  a  pestilential  odor  here.  Sebastian  reflected : 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  225 

"What  an  ideal  place  tor  an  epidemic!" 

Passing  between  two  tottering  houses,  through  an 
alley  that  was  apparently  an  open  sewer,  he  emerged 
on  the  stone-paved  water-front. 

The  beached  fishing-boats  stood  empty.  The 
post-office  and  the  few  miserable  shops  were  shut- 
tered. Round  a  sort  of  tunnel,  labelled  "The  Grand 
Cafe  of  the  Sea,"  lounged  a  crowd  of  men. 

The  younger  ones  seemed  uncomfortable  in  cheap 
Sunday  suits  of  violet  and  coffee-colored  German 
cloth.  The  very  old  displayed  short  jackets  of  green 
velvet,  tight  knee-breeches,  red  stocking-caps.  And 
nearly  all  were  staring,  with  grave  preoccupation,  at 
the  girls  who,  arm  in  arm,  paraded  self-consciously 
along  the  dirty  esplanade. 

Their  glossy  coiffures  were  remarkable.  Brass 
pendants  dangled  from  their  ears.  Their  hips  undu- 
lated slowly  under  skirts  of  threadbare  brocade — old 
family  heirlooms.  From  time  to  time,  they  clutched 
with  rough  fingers  at  their  head-shawls,  which  the 
wind  whipped  out  in  ripples  of  bright  yellow,  laven- 
der, and  pink.  It  was  an  hour  of  delight  and  triumph 
for  them,  this  promenade!  All  of  them,  knowing 
perfectly  the  interest  they  excited  in  the  men — in- 
corrigible amateurs  of  beauty  till  their  dying  day — 
wore  on  their  full  lips,  curved  in  a  certain  way  from 
long,  secret  contemplation  of  sentimental  things,  a 
shadowy  smile  of  exultation  and,  as  it  were,  ex- 
pectancy. 

On  the  beach,  where  an  old  black  pig,  with  spindle- 
shanks,  was  rooting  in  the  offal,  two  carabineers 


226  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

gazed  forth  at  the  rising  sea.  To-day,  they  had 
donned  their  silvery  epaulets  and  shoulder-cords; 
their  cocked  hats  were  ornamented  with  blue  and 
scarlet  plumes. 

It  was  afesta. 

The  Marshal  of  carabineers  made  haste  to  greet 
Sebastian. 

"Yes,  Excellency — in  fact,  the  great  festa  of  the 
year  for  Torregiante.  The  feast  of  the  local  patron, 
Saint  Giosue  the  Admiral.  Presently  we  shall  have  a 
procession.  Don  Vigilio  is  getting  it  ready  at  the 
church.  But  it  won't  be  till  dark,  on  account  of  the 
illuminations!" 

And  with  the  derisive  smile  of  one  who  has  seen  a 
different  sort  of  pageant,  he  pointed  up  to  the  log- 
gias. There  women  were  setting  out  rows  of  candles 
in  paper  cornucopias. 

All  the  islanders  stood  looking  at  Sebastian  in 
silence.  Every  face  expressed  distrust,  uneasiness, 
or  smothered  hostility.  Old  Ilario's  wrinkled  visage 
peered  at  him  from  the  wine-shop  door,  then  was 
swiftly  averted.  The  blackish  fisherman — the  Big 
Paganni — with  the  features  of  an  Arab,  looked 
elaborately  at  the  sky. 

And  this  inimical  atmosphere  seemed  part  of  the 
gathering  storm,  that  one  could  see  stealing  in  across 
the  spray-filled  waste. 

"Well,"  said  Sebastian,  "as  everything's  closed 
tight,  I'll  go." 

"And  not  wait  for  the  procession?" 

"The  Signora " 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  227 

"Ah!    My  humble  respects,  your  Excellency." 

"  Good-night." 

Leaving  the  beach,  he  took  the  hillside  path  toward 
the  villa. 

Across  the  sky  gray  clouds  were  racing  westward. 
Already  their  shadows  lay  cold  on  the  high  wall  of  the 
villa.  Beyond  that  point,  the  sun  was  sinking  into  a 
sea  of  blood.  Through  the  woods  a  long,  shivering 
groan  resounded. 

Half-way  up,  he  saw,  amid  the  underbrush,  a 
scrap  of  paper  gleaming  in  the  dusk.  He  climbed 
over  some  bushes,  and  picked  up  a  fragment  of  a 
post-card.  It  was  scrawled  with  faint  red  writing: 

.  .  .  Ernesto  .... 

He  turned  it  over. 

.  .  .  on  the  headland  ....  ttamy  .... 

Rousing  himself,  he  looked  for  the  rest  of  that 
message.  But  he  found  no  more. 

At  last  he  put  the  fragment  in  his  pocket,  and  went 
on  slowly  to  the  summit. 

There  Annibale,  rifle  in  hand,  was  waiting  for  him 
beneath  the  tossing  branches.  Side  by  side,  the  two 
big  men  contemplated  the  east. 

Over  the  island,  the  onrushing  clouds,  violent  in 
outline,  leaden-hued,  but  touched  here  and  there  by 
smoky  red,  seemed  to  be  raining  down  dark  ashes  shot 
with  sombre  flames.  The  wind-whipped  sea  was 
ghastly  gray,  and  flecked  as  if  with  blood.  Along  the 
curving  beach,  uneven  rows  of  lights  were  winking 
and  going  out. 


228  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"A  bad  night  for  Saint  Giosue!" 

Fannia  came  toward  them  noiselessly  on  her  bare 
feet,  erect,  her  large  outline  showing  with  a  certain 
strange  majesty  against  the  western  conflagration. 
Said  Annibale: 

"Signuri,  we  should  like  to  go  part- way  down,  and 
watch  the  procession?" 

"What  about  the  Signura?" 

"In  her  room,  as  always." 

"She's  gone  to  bed,  Signuri,"  Fannia  told  him. 
"  I  took  her  supper  in  an  hour  ago.  Shall  I  serve  the 
Signuri's  supper  now?  " 

"I  want  none.  Go  on  down,  and  watch  for  Saint 
Giosue.  But  the  rain  will  catch  you." 

"Oh,  that  makes  no  difference,  Signuri!" 

"The  rain  will  wash  our  clothes  for  us." 

Hand  hi  hand,  with  swinging  steps,  they  descended 
through  the  gloom. 

The  west  had  faded.  The  eastern  sky  became 
opaque.  The  dim  vertebrae  of  the  village  were 
eclipsed.  The  lurid  waters  seemed  sinking  gradu- 
ally into  a  black  abyss.  All  the  world  appeared  on 
the  verge  of  being  blotted  out.  But  the  little  rows 
of  lights  still  flickered  bravely,  though  with  widening 
hiatuses.  And  now  the  wind  bore  to  this  high  head- 
land, out  of  the  void,  the  faint  clatter  of  a  church- 
bell. 

On  the  invisible  promontory  where  the  church 
must  be,  there  grew  a  wavering  radiance.  It  was  the 
gleam  of  many  torches  clustered  round  indistinguish- 
able, glistening  objects.  It  was  the  procession. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  229 

Soon,  behind  the  torches,  showed  forth  a  mass  of 
white  robes,  banners  struggling  to  stand,  and  a  high, 
golden  thing  that  tossed  from  side  to  side,  yet  always 
reared  its  top  again,  and  staggered  on. 

Lights  blew  out  in  patches,  to  be  immediately  re- 
kindled. Sometimes  the  banners  vanished,  but  pres- 
ently they  were  up  and  moving.  It  was  a  desper- 
ate contest,  that  persistence  of  pygmies  against  the 
rushing  darkness.  It  resembled  a  battle,  waged 
against  vast  forces  of  oblivion,  by  atoms  who  would 
not  give  up  their  faith.  .  .  . 

When  for  an  instant  the  moaning  of  the  trees,  and 
the  boom  of  waves  against  the  cliffs,  abated,  one 
heard  a  faint  eerie  sound,  of  men  and  children 
singing.  .  .  . 

Below  the  twinkling  loggias  and  windows,  the  pro- 
cession crawled  round  the  beach.  In  a  core  of  torch- 
light, the  tall,  golden  object  was  revealed — a  car,  no 
doubt  of  lath  and  tinsel,  surmounted  by  a  cross. 
Round  it  flashed  other  crosses,  and  square,  ecclesi- 
astic banners  veiled  in  smoke. 

And  those  emblems,  however  haltingly,  however 
often  swallowed  by  the  night,  were  always  reillu- 
minated,  elevated,  and  pushed  onward.  They  ap- 
proached the  rising  ground.  They  even  seemed 
about  to  climb  the  hillside.  It  was  as  if  those  sa- 
cred symbols  would  not  rest  till  they  had  reeled  up 
through  the  tempest,  and  brought  light  and  succor 
to  this  summit. 

He  watched  them  almost  with  the  intensity  of  a 
man  who  waits  for  the  outcome  of  an  augury.  .  .  . 


230  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Yet    when  finally  they   turned   back,  he   felt  no 
relief. 

For  he  knew  that  even  in  this  place,  despite  all  his 
ruthlessness,  luck,  and  ingenuity,  discovery  could 
only  be  a  matter  of  a  little  while. 

The  story  of  her  loss  would  be  spread  broadcast. 
The  carabineers  were  bound  to  send  in  their  report. 
And  the  coincidence  of  this  strange  rescue  from  the 
sea  would  straightway  suggest  investigation. 

In  fact,  his  tale,  his  letters,  his  whole  scheme  of  de- 
ception, had  really  been  put  forward  without  hope. 

And  already  she  herself  had  nearly  succeeded, 
somehow,  hi  giving  the  alarm! 

It  had  begun  in  madness,  but  it  would  be  greater 
madness  to  expect  anything  save  complete  retribu- 
tion. 

Still,  as  he  stared  down  at  the  receding  torches,  he 
discerned,  as  it  were,  hi  that  withdrawal  a  momen- 
tary reprieve. 

"Meanwhile!  .  .  ." 

Meanwhile,  the  moment  might  be  made  to  pay  for 
an  eternity  of  punishment?  .  .  . 

The  lights  were  engulfed  by  rain.  With  an  un- 
earthly wail,  to  a  wide-spread  cracking  of  tree-trunks, 
the  full  violence  of  the  storm  burst  round  him.  It 
roused  an  answering  violence  in  his  heart.  The 
wind  seemed  to  tear  from  him  the  little  he  had  ever 
known  of  forbearance  and  remorse.  On  that  scream- 
ing height,  nothing  remained  but  the  elements  of 
darkness  and  destruction. 

Leaning  heavily  against  the  gale,  he  made  his  way 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  231 

into  the  house.  In  his  room  he  found  a  candle.  He 
lighted  it,  held  it  up,  and  walked  into  the  corridor. 
The  rays,  spreading  out  before  him,  rested  at  last  on  a 
tight-shut  door  without  a  lock. 

He  listened.  .  .  .  No  sound  from  inside.  .  .  . 
But  the  whole  villa  was  shaking,  as  though  seized 
with  terror.  .  .  . 

He  knocked.  In  the  open,  a  tree  crashed  down. 
He  knocked  again.  Even  if  she  had  answered,  he 
could  not  have  heard  her  in  that  uproar. 

He  pushed  against  the  door.  Some  weight  was 
braced  against  it.  What?  .  .  .  Not  she.  .  .  .  What 
then?  .  .  .  Was  it  not,  instead  of  that  obstruction, 
himself  that  baffled  him — some  vast  inhibition  rising 
up  all  suddenly  to  paralyze  his  strength,  some  un- 
guessed  power  in  him,  roused  from  its  long  sleep, 
struggling,  and  almost  stronger  than  his  fumy  sav- 
agery? .  .  . 

He  shook  himself,  set  his  jaws,  and  arched  his 
shoulders.  That  opposition,  material  or  immaterial, 
yielded.  His  weight  against  the  panel,  he  drove 
aside  a  heavy  chest  of  drawers.  .  .  . 

A  cry,  and  the  creaking  of  a  bed. 

"You're  awake?" 

Silence.  .  .  . 

"Put  something  round  you.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

Lifting  the  candle,  he  stepped  into  the  room. 

Tall,  slender,  all  in  white,  she  was  standing  with 
her  back  against  the  shutters,  her  arms  spread  out 
along  the  wall,  her  pale,  slender  feet  clutching  at  the 


232  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

tiles.  Over  each  shoulder  hung  down  on  her  breast 
a  shimmering,  thick  braid.  Her  eyes  were  enor- 
mous, and  fixed  on  his  with  an  expression  he  had 
never  seen  in  any  eyes  before. 

She  looked  like  Artemis,  disarmed,  isolated,  ut- 
terly at  bay,  yet  shining  still  with  a  divine  defiance. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SHE  saw  him  set  down  the  candle,  toss  his  drip- 
ping hat  into  a  chair,  and  shut  the  door.  Still  the 
gale  penetrated  that  dim  room.  The  light  flickered. 
Over  walls  and  ceiling  moved  swiftly  monstrous 
shadows,  as  of  great,  thronging  wings.  And  she  re- 
membered Mme.  Semadeni's  words,  uttered  ages 
ago,  surely  in  another  life: 

"  The  wind  of  their  wings  sweeps  us  forward.  .  .  ." 
So,  at  last,  they  had  swept  her  to  this  culmination 
of  all  nightmares,  finally  to  descend,  and  hover  thick 
about  her  head. 

Raindrops  covered  Sebastian's  rough  suit  of  frieze. 
His  wet  visage  was  colorless.  And  in  that  mask  his 
dark  eyes  gleamed  with  a  violence  which  revealed  the 
storm  within— a  storm  perhaps  even  fiercer  than  the 
tempest  raging  out  of  doors.  He  looked  like  the  per- 
sonification of  those  strident  elements  that  hurled 
themselves  against  the  villa — the  epitome  of  their 
destructive  force  and  tamelessness.  The  last  shreds 
of  the  thin  disguise  which  he  had  worn  so  carelessly 
in  Rome  were  swept  away.  She  felt  that  she  was 
face  to  face  with  something,  as  it  were,  utterly  pri- 
mordial. 

But  she  heard  him  repeating,  in  a  strange  voice: 
"Come,  please — put  something  round  you.  ..." 
He  perceived,  on  a  chair  by  the  bed,  the  yellow 

233 


234  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

shawl.  To  forestall  his  approach,  she  snatched  it 
up,  and  wrapped  it  round  her  shoulders.  He  con- 
tinued to  peer  about  him. 

"I  certainly  brought  up  some  slippers  with  the 
other  things.  ..." 

Suddenly,  in  quivering  tones,  she  cried: 

"Is  there  nothing  natural  about  you?  Nothing 
human?  Nothing  to  make  you  realize  all  you've 
done,  and  what  you're  doing?" 

Somewhere  a  door  slammed  shut.  Through  the 
crashing  of  the  storm,  a  laugh  sounded  and  was 
stifled.  Fannia  and  Annibale  had  come  in.  She 
thought — Two  simple,  honest  souls  not  thirty  feet 
away!  .  .  .  But  his  big  figure  loomed  before  the 
door.  And  she  did  not  dare  to  make  a  movement 
that  might  end  his  immobility. 

At  last,  he  uttered: 

"I  know;  the  world  isn't  like  this.  Such  things 
don't  happen.  It's  an  incredible  business.  That  is, 
if  we  look  at  it  from  the  view-point  of  the  others. 
But  there's  a  different  view-point.  And,  strange  as 
it  may  seem  to  you,  the  natural  one. 

"A  man  desires  a  woman.  Everything  rises  up  to 
oppose  him.  He  breaks  through  all  opposition,  and 
takes  her.  ...  So  men  did,  when  they  were  them- 
selves. So  they  do  yet,  in  places  where  they've  not 
been  civilized  into  slavery.  So  they  may  do  even  in 
the  midst  of  civilization,  if  they've  remained  indi- 
viduals. 

"What  I've  done,  every  man,  who  loves  and  has 
been  denied,  would  like  to  do,  even  to-day.  Only, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  235 

with  those  others,  this  thought  has  been  repressed 
by  cowardice.  I  merely  happen  not  to  have  been 
affected  that  way.  .  .  . 

"When  I  first  laid  eyes  on  you,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  saw  a  being  absolutely  unique,  as  solitary 
amid  all  that  extravagance  and  empty  hubbub  as 
myself,  more  fatal  than  Helen,  more  precious  than 
life.  I  felt  that  I'd  been  searching  for  you  always. 
Something  told  me  that  no  one  in  the  universe  but 
you  could  bring  me  those  unimaginable  things  that  I 
have  never  found,  that  I  have  been  longing  for  for- 
ever as  a  man,  dying  in  the  wilderness,  longs  for  clear 
water.  ...  To  win  you  I'd  have  gone  to  infinitely 
greater  lengths  than  these.  I  could  have  torn  down 
cities,  in  another  age,  or  plunged  a  whole  land  in 
blood.  You  were  worth  any  price — inconceivable 
consequences,  penalties,  and  torments. 

"Not  sanity,  but  madness — yet  surely  a  divine 
madness.  It  caught  us  up  together  and  cast  us 
here,  into  this  wild  solitude,  into  the  heart  of  this 
tempest.  .  .  . 

"  Hark  how  it  blows !  It  sweeps  everything  before 
it.  All  nature  bends  or  breaks.  It  is  the  very  voice 
of  Fate.  .  .  . 

"Ah,  most  beautiful,  most  precious  thing  in  all  the 
world,  you'll  never  find  another  love  like  this,  or  an- 
other such  immortal  hour!  All  we've  lived  apart, 
all  we  had  planned  apart,  was  false.  The  truth 
never  began  for  you  and  me  until  the  day  we  met. 
It  lies  nowhere  save  in  depths  of  your  eyes  and  mine. 
Let's  read  it  there  at  last!  .  ." 


236  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

She  realized  that  he  was  closer  to  her.  She  saw  his 
hands  stretched  out.  And  as  once  before,  it  was  his 
hands  that  frightened  her  the  most,  that  made  her 
suddenly  weaker  and  nearer  faintness,  that  seemed, 
being  so  insidiously  fine  and  different  from  the  rest  of 
him,  the  hands  of  a  more  perilous  personality  than  he 
was  himself,  if  perilousness  lay  in  such  suggestion  as 
had  never  before  touched  her.  .  .  . 

In  that  moment,  she  felt  that  this  scene  had  always 
been  preparing.  Pictures  flashed  before  her  eyes  in 
swift  succession — rooms,  landscapes,  faces,  in  every 
combination  fashioned  to  make  ready  this  hour. 
Crushed  beneath  this  conviction,  so  poignantly  aware 
of  her  loneliness  and  helplessness  amid  this  solitude, 
and  the  tempest  that  nature  had  called  forth  indoors 
and  out,  she  felt  herself  slipping,  numb  and  hopeless, 
into  the  trap  of  Destiny.  But  all  at  once,  as  those 
altering  pictures  blurred  before  her  eyes,  she  saw  the 
face  of  Vincent  Pamfort.  .  .  . 

Courage  returned  to  her  in  a  hot  flood.  He  was 
close  beside  her.  With  one  swift  movement,  she 
whipped  from  beneath  the  pillow  a  long-bladed 
kitchen-knife,  and  set  the  point  against  her  breast. 
Her  head  thrown  back,  looking  at  him  through  a 
mist,  she  gasped: 

"If  you  come  nearer,  if  you  raise  your  hand,  I'll 
drive  this  into  my  heart." 

She  did  not  expect  him  to  believe  her.  Tense, 
pulseless,  with  all  her  faculties  centred  on  the  fin- 
gers round  the  knife-hilt,  she  awaited  his  onslaught 
and  effort  to  disarm  her.  His  first  gesture  she  was 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  237 

ready  to  baffle  in  a  flash.  She  felt  sure  her  last  hour 
had  struck. 

And  she  was  conscious,  in  that  instant,  not  of  fear, 
but  of  a  terrible  exultation.  After  all,  she  would 
triumph! 

But  he  remained  motionless.  His  features  seemed 
to  leap  forth  all  vivid,  shorn  of  their  last  disguise. 
His  irises  dilated.  An  intense  pallor  rilled  his  face. 
His  mouth  moved  spasmodically,  but  no  words  came. 
His  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  knife-point,  which 
pressed  in  the  thin  stuff  of  her  night-dress  under  her 
left  breast. 

In  that  room  unrolled  an  eternity  of  silence. 

At  last,  in  a  dead  voice,  he  breathed: 

"I'm  going  to  step  back.  .  .  .  Don't —  For 
God's  sake,  don't  mistake  me.  .  .  ." 

Very  slowly,  he  lowered  his  arm,  retreated,  and 
leaned  against  the  door.  He  looked  dazed.  His 
forehead  glistened.  His  deep  chest  heaved,  as  if  he 
had  just  emerged  from  some  terrific  struggle.  For 
the  first  time,  she  saw  this  man  unstrung,  helpless 
from  weakness,  mastered. 

There  broke  from  his  throat  the  words: 

"You'd  have  done  it!" 

And  presently  he  repeated: 

"You'd  have  done  it.  You'd  have  destroyed  all 
that!" 

He  drew  in  a  long,  shivering  breath. 

"  Give  me  your  word —    If  I  promise  you " 

His  voice  failed  him.  He  bowed  his  head,  then 
raised  it,  and  achieved  one  straight  look  at  her. 


238  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"I  promise  you.  .  .  .  No,  to-morrow  I'll  promise 
you.  That's  it.  To-morrow.  ..." 

He  turned  blindly  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  left 
the  room. 

The  knife  tinkled  on  the  tiles.  She  collapsed 
across  the  bed. 

That  night  was  interminable.  .  .  . 

Toward  morning  the  storm  abated.  When  day 
had  dawned,  Ghirlaine  pushed  the  shutters  open,  and 
gazed  across  a  tumultuous  sea.  Westward,  dark 
clouds  were  still  massed  heavily;  but  the  wind  had 
changed.  Low  in  the  east,  the  sun  was  striving  to 
shine  through  ragged  vapors. 

Fannia  entered  with  bread  and  coffee.  Ghirlaine 
bathed  and  dressed,  went  out  to  the  portico,  and 
sank  into  a  chair.  Soon  Sebastian  came  through  the 
devastated  flower-beds,  and  stood  before  her. 

Both  were  disfigured  by  exhaustion  and  emo- 
tion. Their  mutual  alteration,  their  like  evidences  of 
suffering — at  least  they  had  that  much  in  common! 
It  put  them,  somehow,  more  nearly  on  the  same 
ground.  It  seemed  to  make  conflict  impossible  for 
the  moment.  This  morning  they  were  equally  dis- 
armed. 

Sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  the  porch,  he  looked 
about  him.  Over  the  sodden  ground,  and  in  the 
portico,  were  scattered  deep-red  rose-petals,  like 
drops  of  blood. 

He  said: 

"Now,  you  must  promise  me  you'll  never  think  of 
that  again?" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  239 

At  length,  she  responded : 

"  I  promise  you  that  if  last  night  repeats  itself " 

His  face  twitched. 

"But  I  swear  that  last  night  will  never  repeat 
itself." 

Laying  her  head  against  the  chair-back,  she  closed 
her  eyes. 

"What  could  you  swear  by?  I  feel  sure  that  no 
human  sentiments  mean  anything  to  you.  All  the  lies 
you've  uttered,  all  the  barbarities  you've  accom- 
plished, lead  me  to  expect  nothing  but  fresh  treachery 
and  violence." 

"I  suppose  you're  right.  Though  love  and  war 
...  As  for  my  promise,  though,  you  can  accept  that 
safely.  I'm  not  a  simple  brute — whatever  you 
think.  Since  no  response  is  possible,  for  me  any- 
thing more  is  quite  out  of  the  question." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  to  stare  at  him  hi  amazement. 
Something  like  a  low  laugh  escaped  her.  And  she 
asked  him,  her  voice  bitter  with  contempt: 

"  Is  it  possible  that  your  insanity  wrent  so  far  as  to 
include  that  hope?" 

Whatever  his  thoughts  were  then,  he  kept  them  to 
himself.  Looking  away,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
wearily. 

"I  was  mistaken,  it  would  seem,  in  both  of 
us.  .  .  ." 

Was  it  not  an  admission  of  complete  defeat?  A 
new  hope  nickered  up  in  her  heart.  When  she  was 
sure  of  the  steadiness  of  her  voice,  she  said: 

"And  now?" 


240  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

He  made  no  reply.     She  persisted: 

"I  suppose  you  realize  that  this  can't  continue  in- 
definitely? That  even  here  such  things  can't  pass 
unnoticed?  That  it's  all  bound  to  come  out?" 

"Naturally.  I  realize  all  that.  Of  course,  I've 
done  everything  I  could  to  prevent  it.  I've  been  as 
ingenious  as  the  circumstances  would  permit.  But 
I  knew  from  the  first  it  was  a  losing  fight.  Up  there, 
they'll  soon  put  two  and  two  together.  They'll  come 
for  you  post-haste.  My  friends  the  carabineers  will 
turn  straightway  into  enemies.  We  shall  have 
church,  state,  and  army  climbing  to  the  rescue.  The 
devil  to  pay  in  earnest!" 

This  unnatural  frankness!  What  new  duplicity  lay 
behind  it? 

He  went  on : 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  if  I  find  myself  pre- 
pared in  time  my  impulse  will  be  to  stand  them  off 
as  long  as  possible.  At  least  that  would  be  a  har- 
monious conclusion  to  my  career." 

He  stood  up,  and  for  a  while  contemplated  her  with 
his  sombre  eyes. 

"You  see,  I  can't  give  you  up  voluntarily.  Un- 
happily, my  nature  still  finds  that  intolerable.  When 
I  think  of  those  others,  who'll  come  inevitably,  and 
take  you  from  me,  I  feel  a  hatred  for  them  that  must 
have  its  outlet.  They're  going  to  despoil  me  of  all 
that  I  consider  worth  while  in  life.  But  they  sha'n't 
find  that  easy.  They've  got  to  buy  their  victory  at  a 
heavy  price. 

"No  doubt  it  will  all  end  soon  enough.     Till  it 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  241 

does,  I  demand  of  life,  if  not  the  happiness  I  hoped 
for  in  my  folly,  at  least  a  shadow  of  that  happiness. 
For  a  little  while  longer  I  must  look  at  you,  and  per- 
haps hear  your  voice.  I  must  wake  in  the  morning 
to  feel  that  you're  not  yet  gone.  I  must  go  to  bed 
at  night  hoping  to  see  you  at  least  once  again.  .  .  . 

"They  say,  up  there,  that  a  great  love  is  capable 
of  any  sacrifice.  .  .  . 

"Well,  I  believe  that;  though  my  interpretation  of 
the  idea  isn't  theirs.  Perhaps — for  who  can  tell  just 
how  this  will  affect  your  future — I've  sacrificed  you. 
If  I  have,  it  was  with  the  crazy  hope  that  deep  in 
your  heart  the  same  instincts  existed  as  in  mine — 
instincts  that  were  bound  to  free  themselves  when 
confronted  with  so  intense  a  call,  that  would  rise,  all 
flaming,  high  above  the  world.  .  .  .  That  you  would 
come  to  feel  the  sacrifice  no  sacrifice  at  all.  ... 

"But  if  it  turns  out  that  I've  sacrificed  you,  at 
least  I'll  have  sacrificed  myself  also.  Not  in  reputa- 
tion, naturally:  for  I  haven't  that  to  offer  up.  From 
the  stand-point  of  those  others,  and  of  you,  all  I 
could  pay  over  would  be  my  life.  I  accept  that 
judgment.  They  shall  have  it — at  my  price." 

He  pondered  awhile,  then  concluded: 

"I  know  of  no  other  atonement,  unfortunately, 
that  I'm  capable  of  making." 

Presently  he  left  her. 

She  considered  these  ideas  without  surprise. 

The  old,  reasonable  world  lay  very  far  away.  She 
saw  its  ballrooms,  full  of  calm-faced  men  personi- 
fying courtesy  and  self-possession,  its  tea-gardens 


242  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

aflutter  with  women  who  lived  the  thin-blooded  ro- 
mances they  fastened  upon  others,  all  its  gilded  cor- 
ners, its  forcing-beds  for  trivial  daring  that  was 
blighted  by  a  pervasive  cautiousness. 

Here  things  were  different!  In  this  spot,  the  very 
rocks  and  foliage  had  an  aspect  intensely  savage. 
Here  the  elements  attained  an  unnatural  ferocity. 
And  here  she  was  isolated  with  one  who  seemed  the 
essence  of  untrammelled  violence.  What  could  be 
impossible? 

She  foresaw  terrible  consequences  of  some  sort 
impending.  And,  at  this  thought,  there  stirred  in  her 
heart,  beneath  that  exquisite  veneer  with  which  in- 
heritance and  cultivation  had  bedecked  her,  some- 
thing unprecedented.  What  was  it? 

Did  she  feel,  in  the  depths  of  her  being,  despite  her 
present  misery  and  all  the  dilemmas  of  the  future,  a 
faint  thrill  of  absolutely  primitive  exultation?  The 
combat  of  strong  men  grappling  to  the  death,  and  she 
its  object! 

She  repulsed  this  suspicion  in  horror.  And 
yet  .  .  . 

She  watched  him  descend  the  hill-path,  beyond  the 
eastern  corner  of  the  villa,  through  the  trees.  The 
torn  foliage  hid  him.  She  supposed  he  had  gone 
down  to  the  village,  to  set  moving  some  fresh 
trickery. 

Indeed,  that  was  his  intention.  But,  where  the 
path  turned,  he  came  on  Annibale  climbing  up, 
slightly  out  of  breath,  black-browed,  tucking  away 
beneath  his  waistband  a  sheathed  stiletto. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  243 

Master  and  man  stopped  short,  and  eyed  each 
other.  Instantly  Annibale's  face  became  illegible, 
with  the  instinctive  caution  of  his  kind  on  finding 
themselves  surprised  in  mischief. 

"Who  was  it?"  asked  Sebastian. 

Annibale  raised  his  shoulders  deprecatingly. 

"Nothing  to  bother  you  with,  Signuri,"  he  an- 
swered, gently.  "I  think  now  he'll  keep  away  for 
a  while.  Eh,  and  I  almost  had  him!  But  a  root 
caught  my  foot.  And  he  jumped  from  under  my 
hands  just  like  a  flea.  He  moves,  that  little  ani- 
mal!" 

And  Annibale  let  slip,  with  a  wistful  look,  one  of 
those  vivid  imprecations,  of  mingled  indecency  and 
blasphemy,  which  roll  from  the  lips  of  the  basso 
populo  of  Italy  without  a  thought  of  harm. 

"So,  it  was  Nino  with  the  crooked  eyes?" 

The  young  man  appeared  amazed. 

"Ah!    You've  noticed  his  visits  too,  Signuri!" 

"You'll  find  in  time,  Annibale,  that  I  notice  every- 
thing. But  there's  one  thing  I  don't  quite  under- 
stand. Why  should  you  go  so  far,  without  my  per- 
mission, as  to  offer  Nino  the  salute  of  the  stiletto?" 

Annibale,  glancing  away,  replied  evasively: 

"Because  he  expects  it.  He  knows  that  tres- 
passers are  forbidden  here.  If  I  did  less,  he  wouldn't 
consider  me  a  man." 

Sebastian  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  have  my  servant  knifing  people  without 
my  orders,  stirring  up  the  carabineers,  and  turning 
my  house  into  a  fort.  Later  on,  you  may  possibly 


244  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

get  as  much  excitement  as  you  want.  Till  then,  re- 
member that  any  row  you  start  is  going  to  affect 
me,  too.  As  for  old  Ilario,  be  very  careful  nowa- 
days, if  you  have  to  drive  him  back,  not  to  put  a 
bullet  through  him.  And  as  for  Nino,  a  beating 
would  do  at  present.  Who  ever  shows  bruises  to  the 
police?  But  a  dead  body  loses  no  time  in  entering 
a  complaint." 

Annibale  reflected.  At  last,  he  came  to  an  ex- 
traordinary resolution. 

"Signuri,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  everything, 
straight  from  the  mouth." 

"That's  what  I  expect,  Annibale." 

"Eccu!  .  .  ." 

He  peered  up  the  path,  before  saying: 

"You  must  know,  Signuri,  that  this  Nino  isn't  one 
of  our  own  people.  He  came  here  on  a  ship,  five 
years  or  so  ago.  It  was  rumored  that  he  was  a  fugi- 
tive, who'd  lived  the  Bad  Life  in  Naples." 

"In  other  words,  that  he'd  been  an  apprentice  to 
the  Camorra." 

Annibale  stared. 

"That's  known  to  you,  too?" 

"Goon." 

"Since  then,  he's  been  back  to  Naples  once.  But 
about  the  time  that  other  Signuri  commenced  to 
build  this  villa,  he  returned.  At  once,  he  smelled 
money  up  here.  He  began  to  crawl  round  this  hill, 
to  spy  on  that  Signuri,  and  learn  his  habits.  But 
only  in  daytime.  He  was  afraid  of  the  Old  Ones, 
for  all  that  he  was  a  foreigner.  Once,  when  the  twi- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  245 

light  caught  him,  he  thought  he  saw  them.  It  was 
I.  I'd  been  trapping  a  mess  of  larks,  to  throw  into 
Fannia's  window.  A  part  of  my  courtship,  Signuri! 
It  led  me  to  find  out  his  tricks. 

"Perhaps,  after  that,  he  was  afraid  to  go  on  alone? 
At  any  rate,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  Naples.  Presently 
two  strangers  came — little,  swaggering  men  with 
pinched  faces,  and  trousers  big  round  the  bottom, 
who  looked  too  much  at  the  girls.  One  night  there 
was  an  argument  about  that,  in  the  Grand  Cafe  of 
the  Sea.  Some  one  passed  the  fighting- word;  but 
before  anybody  could  move  those  two  had  pulled 
out  revolvers.  Revolvers!  Mahl  .  .  .  The  carabi- 
neers gave  them  till  the  next  boat  to  go. 

"But  meanwhile,  the  other  Signuri,  whose  villa 
was  scarcely  dry,  packed  up  in  all  haste  and  ran 
away  to  Sicily.  He  didn't  even  wait  for  the  steamer. 
He  hired  Ilario  to  take  him. 

"In  the  village,  they  said  he'd  seen  the  Old  Ones 
at  last.  Eh!  You  and  I,  Signuri,  know  what  the 
Old  Ones  amount  to!  It  wasn't  ghosts  that  sent 
him  off.  It  was  Nino,  and  his  two  little  friends  of 
the  Camorra. 

"To-day  it  begins  all  over  again.  Nino  smells 
money  in  the  house  once  more.  He  crawls  up  to 
hide  behind  the  cactus,  and  learn  our  habits.  Pres- 
ently, he'll  write  another  letter  to  Naples.  Before 
that  happens,  I  certainly  ought  to  kill  him." 

The  young  man's  handsome,  bronzed  face  turned 
pensive. 

"  As  for  the  body —  The  troublesome  part  of  it  is, 
he  has  the  best  of  us  there.  If  he  kills  any  of  us,  he 


246  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

can  leave  us  lying.  Every  one  would  say  it  was  old 
Ilario  trying  to  pay  off  his  score.  Even  if  it  should 
be  you,  Signuri,  instead  of  me.  Or  the  Signura,  in- 
stead of  Fannia.  The  old  are  all  bunglers,  you  know. 
When  they  meddle  with  such  matters,  people  aren't 
surprised  at  their  mistakes. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  kill  him,  I  shall  have  to  do 
something  with  him  afterward.  .  .  .  Teh!  No  mat- 
ter. One  thing  at  a  time.  The  main  point  is,  to  get 
him  before  he  writes.  It  was  a  bad  blunder  that  I 
made  down  there,  just  now.  Half  a  second  sooner 
would  have  put  him  into  Purgatory.  What  a  pity ! " 

He  shrugged — a  gesture  of  mournful  resignation 
— as  Sebastian  remarked: 

"Especially  since  his  letter's  already  written." 

Annibale  stepped  back. 

"What  do  you  say!" 

"It  was  written  and  posted  night  before  last." 

"Who  says  that!" 

"And  it  will  go  by  to-morrow's  boat.  Unless  one 
explained  matters  to  the  carabineers?" 

"To  the  carabineers!  Cuspettu!  What  human 
being  tells  his  business  to  the  police?  Men  do  for 
themselves." 

Sebastian  nodded.  He  knew  that  hi  Sicily,  and 
the  islands  round  it,  nearly  every  man  of  the  lower 
classes  was  allied  with  the  Mafia — an  organization 
not  primarily  criminal,  but  sustained,  to  baffle  the 
authorities,  by  a  population  which  considers  that  in- 
dividual redressal  of  wrongs  is  necessary  to  manhood. 
In  Annibale's  words  he  found  merely  an  expression  of 
this  racial  idea.  He  responded: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  247 

"I'm  inclined  to  agree  with  you." 

"Naturally!  For  those  who  can't  protect  them- 
selves aren't  worthy  to  live.  La  giustizia  e  pri  lu 
fissa — the  law  is  for  the  weak!  Not  for  you  and  mer 
Signuri!  That  sees  itself  with  half  an  eye." 

"Good  man.  However,  one  might  possibly  cor- 
rupt the  postmaster?" 

"No  chance.  He  is  my  enemy  on  account  of 
Fannia,  whom  he  wanted  to  marry.  I  am  your  ser- 
vant. So  you're  his  enemy,  also." 

"Money  works  wonders." 

"He'd  take  your  money  and  tell  Nino.  Nino 
would  only  write  another  letter.  No,  Signuri:  the 
thing's  done,  that's  all.  In  a  little  while  we'll  have 
two  or  three  Ninos  to  dispose  of,  instead  of  one. 
There  it  is,  hi  a  nutshell." 

"Very  well.    Then  we  stand  together,  do  we?" 

"Certainly." 

"  In  whatever  happens?  " 

"In  whatever  happens." 

"A  bargain." 

By  way  of  reply,  the  young  man  licked  his  thumb. 

"Why  that?" 

"That?    In  Turrigianti  we  seal  our  contracts  so." 

"Curious.  It  happens  to  be  an  old  Moorish  cus- 
tom." 

"True?  No  doubt  they  got  it  from  us,  one  time 
or  other.  ..." 

Sebastian  and  Annibale  returned  to  the  summit. 

From  the  thickets  behind  the  villa  Fannia  ap- 
peared, walking  slowly,  her  dress  in  ravellings  round 


248  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

her  stout,  bare  ankles,  her  shoulders  bowed  beneath 
a  bundle  of  fagots.  Sebastian  looked  thoughtfully 
at  that  shape  which  should  have  earned  respite,  by 
this  time,  from  such  burden-bearing.  When  she  had 
entered  the  house: 

"Annibale,  from  now  on  no  more  heavy  work  for 
Fannia." 

The  young  man's  face  flushed  scarlet. 

"God  forgive  me!  I  try  to  remember.  But  this 
morning  we've  had  other  things  to  think  of.  You're 
good  to  remind  me,  Signuri." 

Sebastian  shrugged  impatiently. 

"I  want  this  event  to  be  as  quickly  over  with  as 
possible.  In  warfare,  invalids  are  an  encumbrance. 
Have  you  any  idea  when  our  garrison  will  be — rein- 
forced?" 

Annibale  looked  blank: 

"  Ma  cu  sapi — who  knows?  Up  here,  one  loses 
track  of  time.  But  soon,  I  think." 

He  reflected.    A  proud  smile  appeared. 

"I  shall  call  him  Ercole,  because  he'll  be  afraid 
of  nothing." 

"Felicitations.  But  how  do  you  know  that  Her- 
cules was  afraid  of  nothing?  " 

"Eh,  there's  a  tradition  in  Turrigianti  to  that  ef- 
fect, Signuri.  Once  upon  a  time,  as  I  understand, 
he  was  one  of  us.  But  you've  heard  of  him  yourself, 
it  seems?" 

"Something  or  other.  ...  I  suppose  there's  no 
doctor  in  the  village?  " 

"  Oh,  no.     But  old  Maria,  of  the  parish-house,  usu- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  249 

ally  attends  to  family  affairs.  Still,  I  doubt  if  she'd 
come  up  here." 

"I'll  have  a  word  with  her  next  time  I'm  down. 
Do  you  think  of  anything  else  that  needs  doing?" 

Annibale  looked  embarrassed. 

"If  I  might  ask,"  he  stammered.  "A  few  lengths 
of  woollen  stuff?  You  could  take  it  out  of  my 
wages." 

"Clothing?" 

"Not  necessary,  Signuri.  She's  been  making  little 
shirts  out  of  an  old  sheet." 

Sebastian  gazed  at  him  almost  quizzically. 

"No  more  luxuries,  then?" 

"Nothing  reasonable." 

"Well,  what  that's  unreasonable?" 

The  young  man  grinned  sheepishly. 

"Eh!  You  know  them,  Signuri,  these  women! 
The  silly  fancies  they  get!  What  don't  they  think 
of,  and  whine  for,  day  in  and  out!  Imagine!  Sweet 
lemons!" 

"Sweet  lemons?" 

"Eh!  For  a  month  and  more  she's  said,  every 
day,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  '  If  only  I  could  eat  a 
sweet  lemon.'  Sanguinacciul  Children,  that's  what 
they  are,  after  all!  Sweet  lemons!" 

"Where  do  they  grow?" 

"Body  of  Bacchus,  at  the  other  end  of  the  island! 
On  a  tree  by  the  hermit's  hut!  With  all  the  village 
between!  When  they  pick  out  something  to  set 
their  hearts  on,  they  take  good  care  to  choose  the 
impossible!" 


250  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"I  see  you're  a  bit  of  a  philosopher." 

"I'm  as  God  made  me,  Signuri." 

"  We  won't  argue  that.  .  .  .  Arrividirci,  Annibale. 
I  leave  you  here  in  charge." 

Sebastian  set  out  for  the  northern  cliffs. 

He  found  the  path  through  the  brush  wellnigh 
obliterated  by  the  storm.  The  interlaced  branches, 
the  knotted  vines  and  brambles,  the  great  masses  of 
cactus  and  the  agave-clumps  that  forced  their  way 
upward  through  the  tangle,  gave  him  cause  for  ap- 
prehensions. These  dense  coverts  encroached  too 
closely  on  the  house.  A  small  army  could  easily  have 
made  an  ambush  from  them. 

Forcing  his  way  through,  at  length  he  stood  on  the 
northern  precipice.  Nearly  three  hundred  feet  be- 
low, deep  swells,  slate-gray  under  arabesques  of  foam, 
were  rolling  in  diagonally,  to  break  against  the 
rock  with  long,  thunderous  crashes. 

"The  Old  Ones  must  be  in  exceptionally  good 
voice  to-day!  ..." 

He  took  the  cliff-path  eastward,  toward  the  Doric 
temple. 

The  sun  had  reached  the  little  glade,  to  light  the 
flower-crowned  roof  and  lichen-covered  walls.  But 
the  narrow  doorway  still  yawned  shadowy  and  cold. 
And  when  he  approached,  the  sound  that  was  like 
titanic  voices  rose  to  a  ghastly  clamor — as  of  giants 
howling,  hooting,  groaning,  in  a  frenzy  of  impotence 
and  rage. 

He  entered,  passed  round  the  stone  screen,  struck 
a  match,  gently  tried  the  pitfall  with  his  foot,  then, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  251 

in  the  dark,  stood  listening  to  the  uproar.  The  place 
fascinated  him.  Somehow  he  felt  at  home  hi  it. 

But  he  soon  came  out,  went  on  along  the  ledge-like 
path,  and  presently  reached  the  platform.  Here  a 
tree,  uprooted  by  the  tempest,  lay  across  the  way. 
He  tilted  it  on  end.  It  disappeared,  and  finally 
plunged  into  the  waves  without  a  sound. 

At  last,  the  path,  swerving  upward,  ended  on  the 
ridge  above  the  village.  Sebastian  looked  down, 
over  groves  and  fields  and  vegetable-terraces,  at  that 
distant  squalor. 

From  the  back  windows  hung  bed-quilts  of  faded 
red  and  yellow.  Little  dingy  figures  were  moving 
round  the  garbage-heaps.  The  rows  of  drab  houses 
were  interrupted  at  intervals  by  vertical  black  fis- 
sures— the  pestilential  alley-ways  that  he  had  al- 
ready explored.  In  and  out  of  these  dodged  naked 
children  and  black  pigs. 

' '  That's  it :  they  live  like  swine !  Now,  suppose  the 
cholera  should  drop  in  on  Torregiante?  " 

The  solitary  hut,  high  on  the  easternmost  promon- 
tory, caught  his  eye.  He  continued  in  that  direction. 

It  was  a  tiny  hovel,  built  of  bowlders,  its  crevices 
stuffed  with  moss,  a  slab  of  driftwood  for  a  lintel, 
its  roof  of  thatched  boughs  and  prickly-pear  leaves 
weighted  down  with  stones.  Close  by,  some  wild 
olives  spread  their  silvery  foliage  over  marigolds,  and 
the  sweet-lemon  tree  let  down  its  glistening  fruit. 

Sebastian  approached  the  doorway.  From  the 
gloom  issued  a  man's  voice,  monotonously  praying. 

"Padre?" 


252  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

The  praying  ceased. 

"With  your  permission,  a  few  of  these  sweet 
lemons?  " 

Finally,  from  the  shadows,  the  calm  reply: 

"What  you  wish,  Christian  Soul." 

"Many  thanks." 

"It  is  not  I  that  you  should  thank." 

Sebastian  felt  suddenly  malicious. 

"Sweet  lemons,  you  know!  A  sensation  that  I'm 
not  acquainted  with!" 

A  pause.     Then  the  voice,  mysteriously  tranquil: 

"Try  it,  my  brother.  Perhaps  it  won't  be  the 
last.  .  .  ." 

The  praying  recommenced. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

As  Sebastian  descended  through  the  woods,  he 
heard  a  faint,  melodious  twittering.  It  was  Little 
Paganni,  seated  amid  his  brown  goats  in  the  rocky 
clearing,  playing  on  his  flute  of  donax-reeds. 

The  beasts  did  not  sense  that  stealthy  approach 
sooner  than  the  goatherd.  When  Sebastian  revealed 
himself,  Little  Paganni  was  waiting  motionless,  flute 
in  lap,  sun-bleached  curls  tossed  back,  large  eyes  ex- 
pectant. Before  he  recognized  the  other,  his  eyes 
looked  gray;  immediately  after,  though  his  face  did 
not  alter  in  the  slightest,  they  were  black.  The 
stranger  stood  still,  to  appreciate  fully  the  child's 
unusual  beauty. 

"Good-morning,  Pan." 

A  slight  frown  crossed  Little  Paganni's  amber 
brow. 

"Good-morning,  Signuri,"  he  responded,  gravely 
watchful. 

"May  one  advance?" 

"Accommodate  yourself,  Signuri." 

"You're  not  afraid  your  goats'  milk  might  go  sour? 
Or  that  your  nose  might  drop  off,  and  your  hair  turn 
into  caterpillars?" 

"No,  Signuri.  With  the  money  you  gave  me  I 
bought  this  amulet  against  your  evil  eye." 

253 


254  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

He  touched  his  small  bare  chest.  Among  the  rags 
hung  a  pewter  image  of  a  hand,  the  index  and  little 
fingers  extended. 

"Then  we  can  talk  together,  now,  without  dan- 
ger?" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can't  harm  me  now,"  the  child  said. 
"Besides,  it  makes  shivers  up  and  down  my  back. 
I  like  to  feel  them." 

"I  salute  you,  Little  Paganni,  because  you're 
brave." 

"So  I  am."  However,  he  became  thoughtful. 
"All  the  same,  if  my  father  should  catch  me  talking 
to  you,  I'd  get  a  beating." 

"And  what  has  Big  Paganni  got  against  me,  Little 
Paganni?  " 

"What  has  every  one,  for  that  matter?  They  say 
you're  a  magician,  and  that  your  wife's  a  siren. 
They  found  you  in  the  sea,  standing  on  the  water; 
and  she  was  singing  to  the  fishes.  Her  feet  were  cov- 
ered with  gold,  from  walking  on  the  bottom,  among 
the  wrecks  of  treasure-ships.  And  she  had  the  tears 
of  drowned  men  strung  round  her  neck.  Besides,, 
you  live  with  the  Old  Ones,  and  don't  die  of  it.  Can 
men  do  that?" 

"Annibale  and  Fannia  do." 

"Because  they're  no  longer  Christians.  They've 
refused  the  Sacraments  of  the  Holy  Church,  and  sold 
themselves  to  the  Devil.  That's  why  Fannia's  baby 
will  have  horns  on  his  head,  and  toes  like  goats'." 

"How  do  you  know  so  much  of  Fannia?" 

"I  hear  my  father  and  Nino  arguing  about  it, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  255 

when  I'm  in  bed,  and  the  others  kick  me  till  I  wake 
up.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  and  looked  away  sullenly.  Perhaps 
he  remembered  his  training,  the  training  of  all  Sicil- 
ian children  of  his  class,  to  the  effect  that  nothing 
which  occurs  within  the  family  must  ever  be  re- 
peated. Sebastian  made  haste  to  change  the  sub- 
ject: 

"Ah.    So  you  have  brothers  and  sisters?" 

The  boy  regarded  Sebastian  almost  pityingly. 

"Every  one  has  brothers  and  sisters.  Except 
magicians." 

Sebastian  sat  down  on  the  turf,  and  lighted  a 
cigarette.  The  goats  all  stood  staring  at  him,  their 
bells  silent,  their  chin-beards  lowered,  their  eyes  full 
of  cunning. 

"Tell  me  about  your  brothers  and  sisters,  Little 
Paganni." 

"Eh!  What  would  there  be  to  tell?  There's  Gi- 
acinta.  She's  four  years  old.  Sometimes  I  bring 
her  up  here  to  sit  with  me.  But  I  sha'n't  do  that 
now:  I've  no  amulet  for  her  to  wear.  .  .  .  Then 
there's  Felicita,  the  baby.  She  has  scabs  on  her 
head.  But  last  night  we  took  her  to  kiss  Saint 
Giosue's  bones;  so  the  scabs  will  soon  be  cured.  .  .  . 
And  Taddio,  my  brother.  But  he's  in  Purgatory. 
.  .  .  That's  all  there  are,  at  present." 

Sebastian  laughed — a  new  sort  of  laugh  for  him. 
He  checked  himself,  then  remarked,  carelessly: 

"I  have  some  sweet  lemons  in  my  pocket." 

"So  I  see,  Signuri." 

"  Would  you  care  for  one?  " 


256  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Little  Paganni  reflected. 

"If  it  came  from  anywhere  else,  I'd  say  no.  But 
I  don't  think  you  could  bewitch  the  hermit's  lemons. 
Thank  you,  Signuri.  I'll  eat  it  with  my  dinner." 

He  unwrapped  a  riddled  bandanna  handkerchief, 
and  in  it  carefully  deposited  the  lemon,  with  the 
hunch  of  coarse  bread,  and  two  shrivelled  little 
tomatoes,  and  the  fragment  of  a  garlic-clove.  Se- 
bastian, with  half-shut  eyes,  nodding  in  aesthetic  ap- 
proval, watched  the  boy's  lowered  face,  as  the  brown, 
elfin  fingers  delicately  rearranged  that  frugal  store  of 
food. 

"You  never  go  home  till  evening,  Little  Paganni?'* 

"How  could  I?    The  goats  must  eat." 

"And  whom  do  they  belong  to,  these  seven  noble 
reservoirs?  " 

"These —  Oh,  to  the  Syndic.  He's  rich.  As  you 
can  see.  But  he  also  owns  the  Grand  Cafe  of  the 
Sea." 

"A  personage,  undoubtedly!  At  least,  when  you 
drive  them  down,  you're  free  to  go  and  play  awhile?" 

"Play!  Play  is  for  children,  Signuri!  When  I 
drive  them  down,  I  take  them  through  the  village. 
The  women  hear  the  bells,  and  stick  their  heads  out 
the  windows,  and  call  for  me.  I  send  the  goats  up- 
stairs, and  the  women  milk  them,  each  as  much  as 
she  wants,  and  let  down  the  money  in  a  basket." 

"And  sometimes  cheat  a  bit?" 

"Pri  Baccu,  they  don't  cheat  me,  Signuri!  I  know 
to  a  drop  how  much  milk  every  one  of  these  goats 
holds." 

" Good.    And  when  they've  run  dry,  what  then?" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  257 

"When  they've  run  dry,  we  go  home,  and  I  lock 
them  up  in  the  cafe  kitchen." 

"Better  still.  And  how  does  the  Syndic  reward 
you  for  all  that — if  it's  fair  to  ask?" 

"Eh,  he  pays  my  father  something,  now  and 
then." 

"I  fancy,  from  what  you  tell  me,  that  your  pockets 
don't  jingle  much." 

"Not  very  much,  Signuri.  .  .  .  Some  tune  ago,  I 
found  a  two-soldi  piece  lying  on  the  beach." 

"No!    Well,  what  dissipations  followed?" 

"I  traded  it  with  a  friend  of  mine  for  his  dog,  that 
had  just  died." 

"And  when  it  was  all  your  own,  that  dog?" 

Into  Little  Paganni's  eyes  stole  a  sweet  look,  of 
retrospective  happiness.  He  murmured: 

"I  bashed  it  with  rocks  till  I  was  tired." 

Sebastian's  shoulders  shook.  He  went  into  a  fit  of 
coughing  over  his  cigarette.  The  goats,  with  a  gam- 
bolade,  dodged  away. 

"How  old  are  you,  Pan?" 

"Six,  Signuri." 

"Oh,  I  think  you  must  be  some  thousands  of  years 
older  than  that!" 

The  child's  eyes  dilated. 

"You  were  certainly  here  before  the  village,  or 
Saint  Giosue  the  Admiral,  or  even  these  trees.  You 
and  your  flute  and  the  goats.  And  you  piped  the 
same  tunes.  But  had  other  listeners.  Who  hid  in 
the  leaves.  Little  shaggy  boys  with  pointed  ears 
and  curly  tails.  Little  transparent  girls  with  long 


258  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

wet  hair  full  of  water-weeds.  Perhaps,  even  nowa- 
days, if  you  played  a  bit  better  than  usual,  they'd 
still  come  to  listen?" 

Clutching  his  amulet,  Pan  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Ai!  For  charity!  Are  you  raising  the  Old 
Ones?" 

"Not  to-day.    I'd  prefer  to  tell  you  stories." 

The  boy  peered  long  and  earnestly  at  Sebastian, 
and  at  the  encircling  foliage.  He  fixed  his  gaze  on 
the  goats,  to  observe  their  demeanor.  In  the  end  he 
sat  down  again,  with  a  deep  sigh.  His  small  chest 
stopped  heaving.  Gradually  his  eyes  turned  blue. 
After  some  moments,  in  a  timid  tone: 

"What  kind  of  stories?" 

"Whatever  you  choose." 

Little  Paganni  revolved  this  offer  in  mind,  with 
side-glances  at  Sebastian.  Nothing  else  could  have 
so  attracted  and  engrossed  this  child  of  a  race  at- 
tached passionately  to  the  ancient  amusement  that 
tale-spinners  afford.  At  last,  clenching  his  fists,  as 
if  taking  his  courage  in  his  hands,  he  whispered: 

"I'd  like  to  hear  about  the  country  of  the  ma- 
gicians!" 

The  man  nodded,  leaned  forward,  elbows  on  knees, 
and  assumed  the  age-old  pose  of  the  weaver  of  yarns. 
With  a  solemn  mien,  he  began: 

"The  country  of  the  magicians  lies  under  the  edge 
of  the  ocean.  ...  A  terrible  place  to  see!  Awful 
clatterings,  and  bangings,  and  roarings !  Everywhere 
smoke,  dust,  and  flashes!  Where  the  houses  plunge 
under  the  ground,  and  spring  into  the  air,  full  of 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  259 

threads  that  buzz  with  voices  a  thousand  kilometers 
away,  and  the  heat  of  burning  trees  that  have  been 
turned  into  stone,  and  lamps  made  out  of  lightning! 
Where  the  people  leap  from  cellar  to  roof  in  a  breath! 
Or  go  flying  over  the  fields  in  a  shower  of  sparks !  Or 
soar  in  the  air  like  birds!  .  .  .  There  you  have  it, 
just  as  it  is!" 

Little  Paganni  shuddered. 

"Holy  Virgin  forbid  that  I  ever  see  it!" 

"  Right  you  are,"  Sebastian  assented.  "  It's  much 
better  here." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"But  the  people  there  do  stranger  things  than 
those." 

"Damentt" 

"A  positive  fact.  Why,  if  you  watched  them 
awhile,  even  when  they  were  only  walking  and  sitting 
and  talking,  you'd  know  they're  a  crazy  lot !  For  in- 
stance, those  fellows  all  worship  graven  images  that 
they've  made  themselves." 

"You  mean  of  Our  Lady  and  the  Blessed  Saints?" 

"Not  at  all.  Of  a  big  booby  called  My  Neigh- 
bor's Tongue." 

"Then  they're  heretics!" 

"I  believe  you.  And  you  couldn't  imagine  the 
antics  they  go  through  while  they  worship  him!  I'll 
tell  you:  they  stand  on  their  heads!  They  think  it 
absolutely  necessary  that  he  should  always  see  them 
upside  down.  Capers,  but  they're  afraid  of  him, 
Little  Paganni!" 

"But  what  could  he  do  to  them?" 


260  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Everything.  Because,  when  they  made  him,  for 
the  finishing  touch  they  clapped  all  their  own  brains 
under  his  crown.  He  can  make  them  cry  with  peo- 
ple they  want  to  laugh  at,  and  laugh  with  others 
whose  throats  they'd  like  to  cut.  He  can  make  them 
kill  a  man  for  something  they're  tired  of,  or  kiss  the 
hand  that  gave  them  a  blow.  He  can  make  them 
hang  themselves  when  they'd  much  rather  not,  or  die 
of  shame  when  there's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 
Or  run  away  and  hide  forever,  if  once  he's  caught 
them  standing  right-side  up.  .  .  . 

"As  for  amusement,  one  of  their  favorite  games  is 
to  go  stumbling  round  in  crowds,  with  bandages  over 
their  eyes,  yelling  at  everybody  who  hasn't  put  one 
on, 'You're  blind!'" 

Little  Paganni  uttered  a  startled  giggle.  That 
game  appealed  to  the  keen  sense  of  irony  innate  in 
him. 

"That  Gesu  may  pardon  them!  They're  mad,  for 
sure,  those  men!  And  their  children,  too,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"Oh,  their  children  soon  catch  the  trick.  One 
might  almost  say  they  were  born  standing  on  their 
heads." 

"And  the  women,  of  course?" 

"Why,  of  course?" 

The  boy  pursed  up  his  cupid's-bow  mouth  in  a 
highly  sophisticated  way. 

"In  Turrigianti,  I  know,  the  women  are  just  as 
their  husbands  tell  them  to  be." 

"Now  it's  you  who  amaze  me,  Little  Paganni!" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  261 

"But  naturally!  If  they  weren't,  we  men  must 
beat  them  with  clubs  and  lock  them  up  in  the 
cellar.  Then  they  mind.  Why  not?  The  women 
are  made  like  that." 

"May  I  ask  how  long  you've  been  married  your- 
self?" ' 

"I'm  not  yet  married,  Signuri.  But  what  of 
that?  I  often  see —  One  has  neighbors  in  Turrigi- 
anti — eccu!  Now  and  then  one  sees  a  man  beating 
his  wife.  Then,  when  she's  cried,  she  likes  him  much 
more  than  before.  The  club  stands  behind  the  door 
— I  mean  to  say,  that's  the  custom,  Signuri.  So  one 
won't  have  to  hunt  far  for  it,  when  he  needs  it.  He 
might  pick  up  something  else  in  his  hurry — say  a 
knife.  .  .  .  Old  llano's  wife,  before  she  died,  had  a 
long  scar  down  her  cheek — so.  But  she  thought  a  lot 
more  of  him  after  that.  .  .  .  That's  the  way  with 
them,  Signuri.  At  least,  in  Turrigianti." 

"In  Torregiante.  .  .  .  But  off  there,  under  the 
edge  of  the  sea,  the  women,  as  well  as  the  men,  can 
be  curious  creatures.  .  .  ." 

The  goats,  returned  to  their  grazing,  moved  slowly 
over  the  grass,  with  bells  softly  jingling.  Here  and 
there,  white  butterflies  were  hovering  over  crimson 
sainfoin.  The  wind  had  died  away.  All  the  leaves 
stood  still  against  a  brilliant  sky.  Above  the  tree- 
tops,  the  western  headland  towered,  wrapped  in  a 
yellow  mist  of  rain  returning  on  the  sunbeams  to  its 
source.  Midst  an  immaterial-looking  film  of  green, 
the  roof  of  the  villa  trembled  indistinctly.  It  was 
like  an  impalpable  place,  about  to  dissolve  into  the 


262  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

golden  vapors  enveloping  it — a  place  housing  some- 
thing too  rare  to  be  perceived  more  clearly,  or  un- 
derstood, or  attained.  .  .  . 

Sebastian  stood  up,  searched  his  pockets,  and 
tossed  the  boy  three  broad  coppers. 

"Do  you  know  what  these  are  for?" 

"To  spend,  perhaps?" 

".To  buy  sister  Giacinta  an  amulet.  Then  you  can 
still  bring  her  up  here,  sometimes,  for  company?  " 

The  small  face  brightened. 

"But  my  amulet  only  cost  five  soldi." 

"Squander  the  other  one  on  yourself." 

"So  I  will!  .  .  ." 

"Little  Paganni,  would  you  care  to  shake  hands?" 

The  child  considered  the  man,  then  averted  his 
eyes,  and  blushed. 

"I'd  rather  not,  Signuri." 

"What!  You're  beginning  to  doubt  the  virtues  of 
your  charm?" 

Interlocking  his  fingers  tight,  Little  Paganni  re- 
peated, nervously: 

"I'd  rather  not." 

Sebastian  turned  away. 

"Good-by,  Pan." 

"Good-by,  Signuri." 

But  he  had  nearly  reached  the  village  before  he 
thought  again  of  the  house  on  the  headland.  .  .  . 

Up  there,  in  the  portico,  Ghirlaine  was  still  sitting, 
her  eyes  on  the  western  horizon. 

She  felt  that  life  was  opening  out  before  her  once 
more — but  in  how  unfathomable  a  form !  She  would 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  263 

go  on  living,  because  she  had  found  the  one  weapon 
from  which  his  ruthlessness  shrunk  back:  but  be- 
yond this  fact  imagination  could  not  extend.  Of  one 
thing  more,  however,  she  was  sure.  With  rescue 
would  come  revenge.  And  now  she  thirsted  for  re- 
venge no  less  intensely  than  for  rescue. 

Not  only  had  he  plunged  her  into  these  horrors, 
and  brought  those  she  loved  to  anguish — the  conse- 
quences were  bound  to  be  terrible.  What  would  the 
world  believe  and  say?  In  what  position  would  she 
find  herself  on  her  return  to  it?  What  was  impend- 
ing for  that  career  of  hers,  which  had  developed  so 
triumphantly  up  to  this  moment,  wherein  she  had 
felt  such  pride  and  certainty,  which  had  nearly 
reached  its  finest  hour  when  this  calamity,  like  a 
bolt  from  the  blue,  struck  her  down? 

Things  could  never  be  the  same  again.  About  her 
innocence  would  always  cling  the  contamination  of 
this  outrage.  The  wrong  he  had  done  her  could  not 
be  expiated  by  his  death. 

Yet  she  desired  his  death,  with  a  fury  such  as  she 
had  never  known  before.  Or,  better  even  than 
death,  his  life,  as  he  would  have  to  live  it,  if  he  drew 
off  from  this  adventure  with  a  whole  skin. 

For  to  all  who  had  tolerated  him  thus  far,  this 
would  be  the  last  straw !  Where  could  he  show  him- 
self hereafter?  He  would  have  to  slink  in  the  cor- 
ners of  the  earth  where  the  most  shameful  outcasts 
of  society  gather — those  who  have  had  much,  but 
have  lost  it  all,  yet  go  on  existing,  in  places  one  never 
hears  of,  in  communities  of  unspeakable  ignominy 


264  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

and  unhappiness,  always  cursing  the  world  that 
sickened  of  them,  always  thinking  of  the  crimes 
they  committed  and  the  price  they  paid.  .  .  .  Yes, 
she  wanted  him  to  live  for  that! 

The  hatred  she  had  felt  for  him  up  there,  or  even 
in  her  first  hours  here,  was  a  little  thing  compared 
to  the  hatred  of  this  hour  of  virtual  victory.  It 
seemed  to  have  needed  the  gradual  influence  of  these 
surroundings  to  bring  forth  in  her  heart  such  fierce 
emotion.  She  was  not  that  girl  of  gracious  calmness 
and  dignity  who,  but  a  little  while  before,  had  passed 
superbly  through  the  Roman  season.  She  was  not 
the  maiden,  suddenly  appealing,  dependent,  stirred 
by  a  new,  strange  warmth,  who  had  said  "a  bientot," 
in  the  palm-gallery  of  the  Palazzo  Campobasso,  to 
Vincent  Pamfort.  She  was  another  creature,  capa- 
ble of  elemental  impulses  and  deeds.  Last  night,  she 
could  have  killed  herself.  To-day,  she  could  hope 
that  another  might  not  die  and  cheat  her  of  the 
thought  that  he  was  living  on  in  torment. 

Would  Vincent  Pamfort  have  recognized  her  now? 
...  As  for  that,  what  would  Vincent  do,  when 
everything  was  known? 

She  told  herself  that  she  could  count  on  him  for- 
ever. But  deep  in  her  heart  she  felt  a  sickening 
despair. 

It  was  not  that  she  doubted  Vincent's  loyalty. 
His  nature  was  too  fine,  she  protested,  to  hesitate 
even  at  such  a  trial.  But  she  feared  the  power  of  the 
world  about  him,  that  he  had  always  known  and 
lived  with,  and  that  she  would  have  to  live  with,  if 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  265 

they  still  married.  She  knew  the  rigid  respectabil- 
ity of  the  old  county  aristocracy  of  England,  its  in- 
stinctive revulsion  from  everything  in  life  that  even 
bordered  on  extravagance,  its  uncompromising  hos- 
tility to  the  crime  passionnel  and  everybody  involved 
in  it.  They  would  not  see  her  through  Vincent's 
eyes,  those  others !  In  their  minds  would  always  lurk 
an  exultant  suspicion,  doubly  persistent  because  she 
was  a  foreigner.  This  hour  might  pass,  but  as  long 
as  she  lived  men  and  women  would  take  good  care  to 
keep  its  ghost  in  evidence.  And  such  a  ghost,  to 
haunt  that  old,  illustrious  country-seat,  and  cast  its 
shadow  on  them  year  after  year,  and  some  day  ap- 
pear before  their  children!  .  .  . 

An  inarticulate  cry  burst  from  her.  And,  some- 
where in  the  house,  another  voice  seemed  to  echo 
hers,  with  just  such  a  moan  of  suffering? 

Springing  up,  she  began  to  pace  the  portico. 

"  What  have  I  done,  that  this  should  come  to  me, 
too!" 

For  she  saw  that,  however  faithful  Vincent  Pam- 
fort  might  be,  she  could  never  submit  his  future  to 
that  torture,  which  he  would  feel  every  hour,  which 
those  among  whom  he  was  bound  to  live  would  never 
for  one  hour  let  him  forget. 

She  knew  him  so  well — he  was  so  transparently 
honest  and  simple-hearted.  If  faithfulness  and  devo- 
tion to  duty  were  bred  in  his  every  fibre,  there  also 
existed  in  him  an  intense,  hereditary  convention- 
ality. If,  in  the  test  of  the  future,  his  love  for  her, 
and  his  sense  of  duty,  should  triumph,  that  triumph 
would  wreck  his  life. 


266  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"No,  no;  he  must  never  even  be  allowed  that 
choice!  .  .  .  That's  it — I  must  never  see  him 
again." 

And,  standing  still,  her  eyes  on  the  western  sea, 
she  repeated: 

"Whatever  happens,  I  must  never  see  him 
again.  ..." 

Tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  she  stretched  out 
her  arms  to  the  west,  and  murmured,  in  a  voice 
choked  with  sobs: 

"Good-by.  .  .  .  Good-by.  .  .  ." 

Ah,  to  go  back  six  months!  To  find  round  her  all 
that  had  irked  her  so,  up  there!  To  breathe  the  hot 
perfumed  air  that  had  so  stifled  her!  To  regain  that 
environment  which  she  had  hated,  and  longed  to  flee 
from! 

Yes,  she  had  longed  to  leave  all  that  behind!  And 
how  cruelly  had  her  wish  been  granted! 

Pacing  to  and  fro,  she  hugged  her  shoulders,  as  if 
to  prevent  her  heart  from  breaking.  Her  ringers  tore 
at  the  coarse  tissue  of  her  dress,  the  peasant-dress, 
clothing  that  exquisite  body  which  till  now  had  never 
known  such  fabrics.  Surely,  this  masquerade  com- 
pleted the  hideous  joke  that  Fate  had  played  on  her. 

"But  why!  .  .  ." 

From  within  the  house,  a  faint  moan  responded: 

"Madonnina.  .  .  .  Madonnina.  ..." 

She  stood  still,  listened,  went  to  the  door.  It  was 
Fannia's  voice. 

Ghirlaine  entered  the  house.  In  the  corridor,  she 
found  the  girl  leaning  against  the  wall,  half-way  to 
her  room,  but  unable  to  go  on.  Through  the  gloom, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  267 

her  face,  ordinarily  so  vivid,  appeared  a  patch  of 
yellowish-white.  Her  mouth  remained  open.  Her 
black  eyes  were  wide  and  blank  with  panic. 

"Ah,  Signura.  .  .  .  Ah,  Signura.  .  .  ." 

"What  has  happened?    What  is  it?" 

In  the  incomprehensible  tongue : 

"Sugnumalatu!  .  .  .  Misericordia!  .  .  .  Nonwg- 
ghiu  morire.  ..." 

Suddenly  Ghirlaine  understood.  She  held  up  that 
sinking  form. 

"Come.    Lean  on  me.     Courage!" 

"Si,  si.    Curragiu.  ..." 

At  last,  the  one  bending  beneath  the  other's 
weight,  they  gamed  Fannia's  room.  The  peasant 
sank  back  upon  the  pallet  spread  with  goatskins, 
and  twisted  her  rough  hands  together. 

"Non  vogghiu  morire.  .  .  .  Non  wgghiu  morire. ..." 

Ghirlaine  understood,  if  not  the  words,  at  least  the 
thought.  "I  don't  want  to  die!"  The  universal 
cry,  impelled  by  terror  of  the  mystery  that  was  ap- 
proaching. 

And  the  witness  of  this  anguish  felt  an  immense 
ignorance,  and  helplessness,  that  made  her  flush  with 
shame.  At  such  a  moment,  before  so  vital,  so  ele- 
mental a  test  of  worth,  to  feel  herself  lacking  in  all 
necessary  power! 

A  sharp  call,  like  the  call  of  a  suffering  animal  to 
its  mate: 

"Annibale!" 

Ghirlaine  sped  into  the  corridor,  through  the  door, 
out  to  the  portico. 


268  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Annibale!    Annibale!" 

A  crashing  of  bushes  on  the  eastern  slope.  He 
breasted  the  hilltop,  running  toward  her,  rifle  half 
raised. 

"Signura!" 

He  darted  into  the  house.    She  followed  him. 

In  the  dim  room,  he  dropped  to  his  knees  beside  the 
pallet.  There  was  a  volley  of  exclamations,  spas- 
modic, interrupted  by  sobs.  At  the  word  "Maria," 
Fannia  seized  him  convulsively  by  the  arms.  Her 
face  was  distorted  by  a  new  terror. 

He  struggled  to  free  himself.  Evidently,  he 
wanted  to  rush  off  somewhere,  and  fetch  some  one. 
But  the  girl  clung  to  him  desperately,  while  uttering 
long  wails  of  passionate  refusal. 

And  in  her  wide  eyes  her  fear  for  him  eclipsed  the 
other  fear. 

"Non  fa  nienti!  Eccu!  Sugnu  beni,  Annibale! 
Eccu!  Sugnu  beni!  .  .  .  It's  nothing.  I'm  well 
again.  .  .  ." 

Then  the  thought  of  his  passing  down  through 
the  village,  among  the  knives  of  mortal  enemies, 
achieved  a  miracle.  Her  lips  quivered.  Her  body 
stiffened.  And  finally  her  set  mouth  revealed  for 
him  the  brave  travesty  of  a  smile. 

"It's  nothing.     See,  it's  nothing.  .  .  ." 

So  those  two  wild  creatures  stared  into  each 
other's  faces,  both  ready  to  risk  death  for  love. 

On  Ghirlaine  this  revelation  acted  as  a  spur.  In 
her,  too,  something  suitable  to  the  hour,  unprece- 
dented, at  once  simple  and  majestic,  was  born  and 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  269 

immediately  lived  intensely.  Abruptly  she  felt  calm 
throughout,  with  the  thrilling  calmness  of  one  who 
finds  herself.  She  touched  Annibale  on  the  shoulder, 
pointed  to  Fannia  and  herself,  and  motioned  him 
out. 

The  young  man  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  and  gazed 
at  her.  What  assurance  did  he  read  there,  in  that 
beautiful  countenance?  He  left  them  together,  the 
daughter  of  the  great  world  and  the  daughter  of 
the  earth.  And  in  Fannia's  bare  chamber  the  two 
joined  their  strength  before  that  trial.  .  .  . 

The  sun  was  declining,  when  Ghirlaine  came  out  to 
the  portico,  at  last,  and  called  to  Annibale.  Her 
face  was  white;  the  violet-colored  marks  beneath  her 
eyes  were  more  intense.  For  she,  too,  had  suffered, 
in  her  first  contact  with  such  suffering;  and  the  final 
prostration  of  the  other  had  found  her  nearly  ready 
to  succumb.  When  Annibale  drew  near,  at  first  he 
could  not  speak  for  apprehension. 

Then  her  voice  reassured  him.  He  went  in,  lifting 
his  large,  bare  feet  cautiously,  hat  hi  hand,  as  if  into  a 
church. 

Fannia  seemed  not  to  have  moved  since  he  had  left 
her.  Her  thick  black  hair  was  spread  out  over  the 
pillow.  Her  arms  lay  nerveless.  Her  shape  seemed 
sinking  into  the  pallet,  beneath  a  coverlid  of  intricate 
crochet-work — the  coperta  del  letto  matrimoniale,  her 
wedding  counterpane,  that  she  had  begun  to  make 
when  she  was  twelve  years  old.  At  their  entrance, 
her  head  did  not  turn,  her  body  did  not  stir.  But 
very  slowly  her  eyes  rolled  in  their  sockets,  and 


270  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

achieved  one  of  those  side-glances  for  which  women's 
heads  are  made.  Two  great  drops  welled  up  be- 
tween her  eyelids,  and  rolled  down  to  her  ears.  And 
her  voice,  so  deep  and  resonant  formerly,  uttered  the 
faintest  sigh: 

"Ecculu.  .  .  .  Look  a,t  him!" 

Then  one  made  out,  nestling  close  under  her  arm,  a 
little,  purplish  round  face  upturned. 

Annibale  let  fall  his  hat,  and  f earsomely  drew  near. 
He  bent  forward  gradually,  as  if  ready  to  spring  back. 
His  jaw  hung  down.  For  a  time,  he  gaped  at  that 
stupendous  son  of  his,  and  at  the  wonderful  mother. 

In  the  end,  he  turned  to  Ghirlaine.  His  deep  chest 
swelled  out.  He  wanted  to  speak,  even  though  she 
might  not  understand  the  words.  But  he  could  only 
raise  his  shoulders,  with  his  eyes,  in  one  huge,  elo- 
quent shrug.  Suddenly,  with  a  thump,  he  went 
down  on  his  knees  before  her,  snatched  her  hands, 
and  covered  them  with  voracious  kisses. 

"Ah!    Signura!" 

His  outburst  was  volcanic.  His  frame  shook :  tears 
rained  down  upon  her  fingers.  And  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes,  also. 

Out  of  doors,  she  walked  down  through  the  flowers 
to  the  brink,  and  looked  across  the  sparkling  water. 

She  was  moved  by  this  event.  Her  intimate  con- 
tact with  it  had  produced  in  her  an  unprecedented 
awe.  The  fact,  and  all  the  crude  emotions  that  had 
caused  it,  seemed  somehow  marvellously  ennobled  by 
these  pains  and  tears,  by  these  impulses  of  sacrifice 
and  gratitude. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  271 

She  was  glad  to  have  been  drawn  into  that  drama, 
to  have  played  her  part  in  it.  Perhaps,  she  thought, 
not  knowing  the  vast  physical  difference  between 
that  savage  girl  indoors  and  the  women  of  her 
world,  perhaps  she  was  even  responsible  for  the  pres- 
ent existence  of  two  human  beings — for  the  future 
interplay  of  three  affections? 

It  was  an  inspiriting  sensation — that  feeling  of  in- 
tense personal  significance,  for  life  or  death,  for  grief 
or  happiness!  .  .  . 

The  humble  appeared  to  her  in  a  new  light,  almost 
as  part  of  herself:  and  she  greeted  this  idea  with  a 
certain  half-unconscious  pride.  Those  ragged  sweet- 
hearts, who  had  chosen  their  own  way  despite  the 
opinion  of  their  little  world,  were  changed,  at  that 
moment,  into  figures  more  heroic  than  all  the  heroes 
she  had  known.  For  a  flash,  she  glimpsed  then  the 
grandeur  of  the  primitive,  the  natural,  the  untram- 
melled, when  moved  by  mutual  love.  It  was  a  vast 
stretch  of  space,  indeed,  that  opened  out  before  her 
now — a  vista  as  far-reaching  as  the  western  sky  be- 
tween the  flushing  clouds,  and  no  less  blinding,  to 
her  unaccustomed  sight.  .  .  . 

A  step  sounded  behind  her  on  the  pavement  of  the 
portico.  It  was  Sebastian,  returned  from  the  village. 

He  stopped  to  stare  at  her  in  surprise.  Then  he 
went  on,  with  resonant  footfalls,  toward  the  door. 

"Wait!" 

She  came  toward  him,  and  put  her  finger  to  her 
lips. 

"  Go  quietly.    There  are  three  in  there." 


272  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

As  she  stood  amid  the  tangled  flowers,  outlined 
against  the  sun,  her  figure  enveloped  as  by  a  nimbus, 
her  hair  a  flaming  aureole,  she  looked  like  a  young 
Sibyl,  whose  grave  eyes  contain  unfathomable  se- 
crets. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FOR  Torregiante,  steam-ship  day  was  always  a  sort 
oifesta.  The  fishermen  stayed  home.  The  farmers 
forbore  to  work  their  vegetable-patches.  Round 
noon,  all  the  village  gathered  at  the  shore. 

The  esplanade,  sloping  down  gently  to  the  beach, 
was  paved  with  broad  blocks  of  stone.  The  crevices 
were  wedged  at  intervals  with  iron  rings,  to  which  the 
sail-boats,  when  they  had  been  hauled  up  on  rollers, 
could  be  lashed  fast.  To-day,  the  water-front  was 
all  encumbered  with  these  rough  craft,  short-masted, 
hog-backed,  reeking  with  tar  and  fish. 

Among  the  bulging  hulls  of  faded  blue,  booths  had 
sprung  up  at  random.  Their  miserable  wares  were 
screened  from  the  fierce  sun  by  scraps  of  sail-cloth. 
Here  and  there,  over  a  brazier,  a  ragamuffin  fried 
mysterious  chunks  of  offal  dipped  in  batter,  or,  be- 
tween ear-splitting  howls,  turned  out  waffles  of  flour- 
and-water  paste  strewn  sparingly  with  cardamon 
seeds. 

On  the  black  sand  glistening  with  mica,  thin-legged 
boys  were  rolling  up  the  dark-brown  nets.  The 
girls,  their  arms  entwined,  interrupted  this  business 
mischievously,  admired  the  pinchbeck  ornaments  ex- 
posed for  sale,  or  blushed  as  young  men  slipped  by 
them  with  a  whisper.  Rugged  solemn  fellows,  with 
bundles  of  live  chickens  slung  over  their  shoulders 

273 


274  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

upside  down,  gathered  to  lose  their  pennies  and  their 
voices  at  the  ancient  game  of  "flash  the  fingers." 
The  mothers,  their  latest  brats  dragging  down  their 
hair,  screamed  threats  at  the  five-year-olds,  who 
pelted  one  another  with  fish-heads  and  tumbled  into 
puddles. 

But  the  village  elders  held  themselves  aloof  from 
all  this  stridence.  With  an  air  of  supreme  disillu- 
sionment, they  sat  before  the  Grand  Cafe  of  the  Sea, 
round  the  tunnel-like  doorways  surmounted  by 
gaudy  prints  of  the  Madonna,  beneath  the  loggias 
garnished  with  bunches  of  dry  onions,  peppers,  and 
tomatoes.  For  their  part,  they  had  seen  the  ship 
come  in  too  many  years  to  get  excited — but  not  often 
enough  to  go  about  their  business  when  it  was 
expected. 

Toward  one  o'clock,  considerably  behind-time  as 
usual,  the  steam-boat  crept  round  the  western  head- 
land, trailing  a  dun-colored  plume  of  smoke. 

All  eyes  turned  toward  the  little  vessel,  grimy, 
snub-nosed,  apparently  almost  overbalanced  by  its 
frowsy  superstructure,  rolling  from  side  to  side  even 
in  that  calm  sea.  Rowing-boats  put  out  from  shore. 
A  hundred  yards  off  the  beach,  a  bell  jingled:  the 
steamer  showed  its  broadside  and  stood  still.  Into 
a  rowing-boat  dropped  a  white-and-red  striped  mail- 
bag.  Some  men  scrambled  down  the  ladder.  On 
the  deck,  a  few  lads  in  jerseys  were  tugging  at  crates 
and  boxes. 

Sebastian,  watching  at  the  water's  edge,  found  the 
Marshal  of  carabineers  beside  him. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  275 

"No  doubt  there  are  letters  for  your  Excellency  in 
that  bag!" 

"So  I  hope.    And  other  things  in  those  boxes." 

"Then  your  Excellency  is  really  planning  to  stay 
on?" 

"For  a  while.  It's  charming,  the  Place-Up- 
There." 

"And  the  Signora?" 

"Improving  famously." 

' '  Good  news ! ' '  The  Maresciallo's  face,  which  had 
been  slightly  wistful  while  turned  toward  the  ship, 
beamed  with  enthusiasm. 

"Pray  recommend  me  to  her  Excellency,  Signore. 
Though  no  doubt  an  angel — saving  your  Excellency's 
presence — would  have  just  as  much  use  as  she  for  the 
services  of  a  carabineer!" 

"Who  knows?"  Sebastian  responded,  calmly. 
"At  any  rate,  it  will  please  her  to  give  you  a  glass  of 
wine  some  day,  when  you  feel  like  climbing  to  our 
perch." 

"A  thousand  thanks!"  But  the  soldier  added, 
laughing:  "You'll  have  to  warn  Annibale  that  it's  a 
peaceful  visit." 

"He'll  be  glad  to  see  even  you.  He's  dying  to  ex- 
hibit his  baby." 

"What!  The  baby's  arrived?  Magari!  Time 
does  pass,  then,  in  Torregiante,  after  all!" 

The  priest  joined  them,  frail  and  pallid  in  his 
greenish  cassock,  his  kindly  eyes  shaded  by  his  un- 
kempt beaver  hat,  his  long,  thin  mouth  trembling  in 
a  smile. 


276  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  glancing  out  at  the  steamer, 
"  I,  also.  Even  we  veterans,  between  our  tasks,  like 
to  contemplate  the  links  that  bind  us  to  the  past. 
But  that  link,  there,  binds  some  to  the  future  also — 
eh,  Signer  Maresciallo?" 

"A  fact,  Don  Vigilio,"  the  soldier  cried,  heartily. 
"My  men  and  I  will  be  relieved  in  the  Autumn." 

"And  you,  Padre?"  asked  Sebastian. 

Don  Vigilio  shrugged,  and  smiled  more  gently. 

"If  I  steal  such  moments  as  these,  at  least  that 
doesn't  mean  I'm  homesick.  In  this  life  each  has 
his  special  work  to  do.  Once  on  a  time,  I  thought 
mine  lay  out  there.  But  my  superiors,  nearer  the 
source  of  inspiration  than  I,  knew  better.  Now  I 
realize  that  it  lies  here." 

He  nodded  several  times. 

"Torregiante,  a  little  world  in  itself.  Why,  I 
have  much  more  than  I  deserve,  of  honorable  re- 
sponsibility!" 

He  spoke  pure  Italian,  with  that  inimitable  accent 
which  is  only  obtained  by  long  residence  in  Rome. 
And  Sebastian,  looking  at  that  meek,  worn  old  face, 
reflected:  "Here's  another,  it  seems,  who  might  have 
his  little  tale  to  tell?" 

But  close  at  hand  a  voice  roared  out: 

"If  my  wine's  not  aboard,  Blood  of  Bacchus,  but 
I'll  have  somebody's  skin!" 

It  was  a  fat,  bow-legged,  sanguinary  fellow  of  mid- 
dle age,  with  protruding  eyes,  and  the  mustache  of  a 
walrus.  He  wore  no  collar.  His  big  paunch  was 
covered  with  a  stained  plaid  waistcoat  of  moth-eaten 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  277 

plush.  His  sausage-like  fingers  were  congested  by 
cheap  rings.  Evidently,  the  sound  of  his  voice  in 
anger  gave  him  a  certain  pleasure.  For,  without 
preamble,  he  bellowed  at  the  trio: 

"  I  ask  you,  how  is  a  man  to  run  a  wine-shop  with- 
out wine?  But  do  they  consider  that,  those  lazy 
devils  at  Trapani?  Dirty  foreigners!  Accidents  to 
them!  May  an  apoplexy  strike  them!  May  the 
cholera  take  them  off!  May  they  die  in  a  prison!" 

He  whirled  round  on  some  deck-hands  from  the 
steamer,  who  had  landed  near  by. 

"Tell  them  that  next  time  I  go  to  Trapani  the 
way  I'll  yell  in  their  office  will  shake  the  plaster  off 
the  walls!" 

It  was  the  Syndic. 

When  he  had  almost  stopped  snorting,  Don  Vigilio 
introduced  Sebastian.  The  two  shook  hands,  and 
crossed  glances.  Abruptly,  the  Syndic  lost  his 
bluster,  raised  his  shoulders  with  a  grin,  and  uttered, 
in  a  confidential,  somewhat  apologetic  tone: 

"Eh,  Signuri!  As  you  know,  one  has  to  bellow, 
and  promise  death  and  destruction,  to  get  anything 
in  this  world!" 

"I  perceive  you  have  the  secret  of  authority  in 
your  pocket." 

"dial  It's  the  only  way  to  manage  folks — to 
bully  them." 

"It  would  be  folly  to  argue  with  a  man  whose 
theories  have  brought  him  to  the  pinnacle  of  success." 

The  Syndic's  visage  was  dangerously  congested 
by  a  blush  of  pride.  But  he  felt  called  upon  to 
protest : 


278  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Oh,  Signuri!  Turrigianti — a  small  spot,  after 
all!  I  know;  for  I,  too,  have  travelled.  To  Tra- 
pani,  to  Palermo,  even  to  Messina!" 

"Caesar  would  rather  have  been  first  in  a  village 
than  second  at  Rome." 

"Please?"  the  Syndic  requested,  blankly. 

A  new  voice  remarked,  with  eager  obsequiousness : 

"Our  brave  Syndic  loses  little  by  not  recalling, 
him.  The  object  of  education — I  speak  now  of  such 
of  its  ramifications  .as  history,  art,  letters,  et  cetera — 
is  to  teach  us  what  to  forget." 

Sebastian  stared  at  the  speaker.  He  saw  a  young 
man  of  excessive  thinness,  with  a  cadaverous  face  at 
once  puerile,  vain,  and  untrustworthy.  This  indi- 
vidual wore  a  purplish,  threadbare  suit,  of  the  cut 
affected  by  cheap  Palermo  dandies.  His  cravat  of 
green  satin,  considerably  soiled  and  frayed,  held  an 
imitation  emerald.  With  his  thin  mustache,  pointed 
nose,  and  beady  eyes,  he  looked  like  a  starving  rat. 

"A  nice  way,"  protested  Don  Vigilio,  good-nat- 
uredly, "for  our  school-master  to  talk!" 

The  new-comer  made  a  gesture  with  his  cigarette, 
which,  as  it  was  probably  the  only  one  he  had,  was 
not  afire,  but  worn,  so  to  speak,  merely  to  give  him 
an  additional  touch  of  elegance. 

"But  why  not?  We  live  in  houses  that  were  built 
too  long  ago  to  suit  us,  that  we  can't  breathe  in,  that 
cramp  our  lives.  For  we're  a  different  sort,  at  last, 
we  of  this  age!  So  let's  knock  down  the  rubbish, 
and  forget  it!  Let's  build  our  house  on  fresh  foun- 
dations!" 

"My  son,"  said  the  old  priest,  almost  sternly, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  279 

"there  is  only  one  safe  foundation,  and  it  endures 
forever." 

The  young  man  stopped  looking  at  Sebastian  as  if 
anxious  for  approval.  With  the  extreme  politeness 
of  veiled  impudence,  he  answered: 

"Ah,  Padre,  I'm  of  the  Government;  you're  the 
Church:  so  we  might  set  the  Vatican  and  the  Quirinal 
an  example  of  harmony!  But  pardon  me:  I  expect  a 
book  by  this  steamer." 

"And  I  some  letters,"  said  Sebastian,  waking  from 
his  amusement. 

"Nothing  for  you,  Excellency,"  the  school-master 
informed  him,  promptly.  "I've  just  glanced  over 
the  mail." 

"Nor  boxes,  either,"  volunteered  the  Marshal,  re- 
turning from  a  look  at  the  goods  piled  upon  the 
sand. 

"Nothing?    Another  fortnight,  then.  .  .  ." 

But  Sebastian  took  the  path  to  the  villa  very 
thoughtfully. 

It  was  not  like  Disnisius  to  be  remiss.  Suppose  the 
whole  affair  was  known  already,  and  he  had  been 
forced  to  slip  away  in  haste?  But  in  that  case  he 
would  surely  have  sent  a  warning?  Or  come  to 
stand  by  his  master? 

Two  weeks  more  of  suspense.    And  then?  .  .  . 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  Sebastian  met  Nino  de- 
scending. 

The  youth  halted,  checked  an  involuntary  move- 
ment, and  stood  aside.  Sebastian  stopped  to  look 
down  into  that  crooked  face. 


280  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Good-day,  Nino." 

"Good-day,  Signuri,"  the  ex-apprentice  to  the 
Camorra  answered,  in  stifled  voice. 

"Been  visiting  Annibale?" 

"  Annibale  and  I  don't  visit.  I've  been  hunting  in 
the  woods  for  medicine — for  vermouth  and  mastic. 
But  I  found  none." 

"That's  unfortunate,  Nino.  For  you  look  far 
from  well." 

The  youth  raised  his  eyes  quickly,  then  dropped 
them.  His  nostrils  expanded  and  turned  pale. 

"You  look  far  from  well,"  Sebastian  repeated, 
softly.  "You  look  to  me  as  if  you  were  on  the  verge 
of  falling  dangerously  ill.  ...  God  keep  you  well, 
Nino." 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  other,  and  mounted  to 
the  summit. 

Ghirlaine  was  sitting  in  the  portico,  as  always, 
facing  the  western  sea.  He  went  to  her,  and  said: 

"The  things  I  ordered  for  you  didn't  come." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  slow,  strange  smile,  cold, 
subtly  terrible,  like  the  smile  of  a  Medusa. 

"It  hardly  matters,  I  think,"  she  answered,  in  a 
way  to  make  him  feel  the  triviality  of  his  words. 
And  he  realized,  with  a  shock,  that  she  was  human 
enough,  after  all,  for  certain  fierce  emotions.  She 
was  counting  the  days  until  his  punishment.  .  .  . 

But  his  punishment  had  begun  already. 

Through  the  silence  of  that  hilltop,  she  moved  like 
the  phantom  of  something  inexpressibly  remote. 
Every  morning  this  feeling  came  to  him,  as  he 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  281 

watched  her  drifting  among  the  flowers  of  the  ter- 
race. She  stooped,  with  a  flowing  grace  that  made 
him  catch  his  breath,  to  let  the  roses  brush  her  cheek, 
as  if  listening  to  messages  that  the  wind  had  brought 
them  from  afar.  She  touched  the  asphodels  with  her 
long,  curving  fingers  in  caresses  full  of  secret  mean- 
ing. Or,  standing  erect,  her  exquisite,  tall  form  out- 
lined against  the  sky,  she  gazed  across  the  water,  for 
a  long  time  motionless,  wrapped  in  thoughts  that  he 
could  never  share  or  understand.  Then,  at  last,  she 
turned,  with  the  face  of  one  back  from  a  long  journey, 
and,  going  slowly  to  the  villa,  passed  him  as  if  he 
were  not  there. 

He  thought,  "She  is  thinking  of  him."  And  he 
fell  to  wondering  whether  she  was,  really,  as  she  had 
always  shown  herself  to  him — a  creature  uninflam- 
mable, or,  at  least,  as  yet  without  the  premonitory 
warmth  that  leads  to  passion.  Her  hours  with  the 
other,  what  growing  fervors,  what  beginnings  of  self- 
abandonment,  had  they  contained?  He  pictured 
such  scenes,  in  anguish,  yet  driven  to  contemplate 
them  despite  all  efforts  of  his  will.  The  other! 
Though  he  was  far  away,  Sebastian  felt  that  some- 
how he  was  here  with  her,  that  the  remembrance  of 
her  hours  with  him  supported  her,  that  it  was  the 
thought  and  hope  of  him  which  kept  her  in  this 
miraculous  calmness.  .  .  . 

Her  face  had  altered.  It  had  grown  more  ethereal 
in  suffering,  even  rarer  and  purer  than  before.  At 
times  she  seemed  wellnigh  a  supernatural  thing,  a 
half-impalpable  personification  of  spiritual  beauty. 


282  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Bereft  of  those  intricate  and  fashionable  adornments, 
that  had  added  to  her  charms,  up  there,  the  attrac- 
tion of  a  certain  worldliness,  she  appeared  marvel- 
lously simplified,  and  in  consequence  even  more  re- 
mote from  him.  He  felt  like  one  who  has  entrapped 
a  being  of  another  world,  only  to  see  her  dissolve  into 
thin  air  before  his  eyes.  But  because  no  man  on 
earth  can  find  courage  to  give  up  his  most  precious 
ideal,  Sebastian  could  not,  even  now,  bring  himself 
to  think  of  giving  up  this  living  ideal  so  poignantly 
enriched,  this  phantasm  of  unattainable  felicity.  .  .  . 

Yet,  at  the  other's  touch,  she  had  not  so  dis- 
solved ! 

He  pondered  his  rival's  personality.  He  could 
imagine  its  elements.  And  he  began  to  glimpse,  now, 
a  fact  that  he,  for  all  his  long  scrutiny  of  human  nat- 
ure, had  not  had  occasion  to  perceive  before — that 
between  man  and  woman  there  can  be  no  union  of 
the  heart  till  one  has  nearly  attained  the  spiritual 
level  of  the  other. 

/  So,  for  the  first  time  in  his  career,  he  commenced 
to  understand  what  retribution  Life  may  visit  on 
\   long,  persistent  enmity  to  its  intentions.  .  .  . 

Sometimes,  while  he  was  revolving  such  ideas  in  his 
mind,  she  came  out  on  the  portico  with  Fannia's  baby 
in  her  arms.  The  little  figure,  strapped  to  a  board, 
wrapped  tight  in  swaddling-clothes,  was  sheltered  by 
her  white  arms  against  her  perfect  breast.  Then,  if 
she  did  not  think  of  him,  suddenly  all  her  remoteness 
vanished.  She  became  a  concrete  being,  intensely 
human.  Holding  the  tiny,  fat  head  against  her 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  283 

shoulder,  she  whispered  till  the  vague  eyes  rolled 
round  to  fix  themselves  on  hers.  Then  she  put  her 
face  forward,  with  a  sort  of  thirsty  eagerness,  smiled 
with  a  shiver,  and  pressed  her  lips  against  the 
dimpled  neck.  But  if  she  saw  Sebastian  watching, 
her  face  changed  instantly.  The  warmth  left  her. 
Her  personality  seemed  to  shred  away,  and  leave  the 
phantom.  She  turned,  and  carried  the  baby  in  to 
Fannia. 

Soon  the  peasant-girl  sat  knitting  in  the  sunshine 
all  day  long.  Now  and  then,  she  let  fall  the  needles, 
while  her  gaze  followed  Ghirlaine  hi  dumb  adoration. 
Often  they  were  together  among  the  flowers,  beneath 
the  lemon-tree  laden  with  its  pale  fruit.  At  inter- 
vals, softly  they  exchanged  words  and  sentences, 
which  Ghirlaine  repeated  many  times,  with  improv- 
ing accent. 

When  Fannia  nursed  her  baby,  the  other  gazed 
raptly  at  the  little  eager  mouth,  the  helpless  hands 
always  closing  and  unclosing.  With  an  impulsive 
movement,  she  touched  the  baby's  cheek.  Fannia 
laughed,  a  deep-chested  laugh  of  frank  enjoyment 
and  returning  health.  Then  they  were  both  silent, 
watching  the  small  glutton,  while  the  bees  buzzed 
round  them,  and  blue  butterflies  hovered  in  a  cloud 
against  the  bluer  sky. 

Annibale  brought  in  fagots,  fetched  the  water{ 
cooked  the  food.  He  tended  his  vegetable-patch, 
gathered  wild  asparagus  and  Arabian  rose-artichokes, 
picked  a  mess  of  snails  from  the  grape-vines,  trapped 
birds,  produced  every  day  some  edible  novelty. 


284  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Often  he  came  home  with  a  mullet,  a  crayfish  or  two, 
a  hatful  of  sea-urchins,  or  a  young  octopus  which  he 
stewed  in  oil,  garlic,  and  tomatoes.  It  turned  out 
that  near  the  caves  he  had  some  cane  lobster-pots, 
and  nets  of  agave-fibre — though  that  any  one  should 
be  able  to  climb  up  and  down  the  northern  cliffs 
seemed  incredible.  Annibale  did  so,  however,  with- 
out any  thought  of  danger.  And  when  his  tasks 
were  finished,  he  had  time  to  prowl  by  the  hour,  over 
the  hillside,  on  his  own  affairs. 

But  every  evening,  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  porch, 
and  talked  to  Sebastian  about  his  offspring. 

"But  truly,  Signuri,  he  knows  me  perfectly! 
Whenever  I  stand  over  him,  he  blows  a  little  bubble. 
Which  he  does  for  nobody  else!  Eccu!  It's  a  sign 
between  us.  We're  comrades  already.  Soon  I  shall 
begin  to  teach  him  things." 

"For  instance,"  said  Sebastian,  his  mind  elsewhere. 

"To  catch  fish  and  birds,  to  climb  the  rocks,  not  to 
step  on  vipers,  to  open  a  knife  with  one  hand,  to  de- 
ceive people  who  ask  questions,  to  mistrust  the  law. 
Eh,  he  shall  grow  up  to  be  a  man,  my  little  Ercole!" 

Across  the  terrace,  Ghirlaine  and  Fannia  had  their 
heads  together  over  the  object  of  these  plans.  He 
was  bawling  his  best. 

Between  howls,  the  words,  in  Ghirlaine's  ever-bet- 
ter Sicilian: 

" U  pozzu  pigghiari — may  I  take  him?" 

"Please,  Signura." 

Ghirlaine  gathered  the  baby  quickly  to  her  bosom. 
In  a  moment  he  stopped  crying. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  285 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Annibale,  softly,  "she's  an  angel 
of  this  world,  our  Signura!  .  .  .  What  a  pity.  ..." 

"Well?" 

"Nothing,  Signuri." 

He  sighed,  got  up,  and  took  the  coil  of  fibre  rope 
which  he  always  seemed  to  have  at  hand,  of  late. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  those  nooses,  Anni- 
bale?" 

"These,  Signuri?  But  I  hardly  know  myself. 
Yet  the  other  day  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw — sav- 
ing your  presence — a  pig  from  the  village  rooting 
in  the  groves.  So  I  thought,  pri  Baccu,  if  he's  as 
foolish  as  that,  that  pig,  why  not  profit  by  it? " 

He  went  down  the  hillside.  His  bare  feet  made  no 
sound.  .  .  . 

One  perfect  day  succeeded  another.  The  sky  re- 
sembled deep-blue  satin;  the  sea  flashed  like  a  noble 
jewel.  Toward  evening,  the  same  gorgeous  trans- 
formation of  the  world.  Then  the  purple  twilight, 
thick  with  golden  stars. 

Hot  weather  was  approaching.  All  day  the  lo- 
custs sang  in  the  pomegranate  trees.  Far  below,  on 
the  slope  behind  the  village,  the  men  were  working 
naked  in  their  vegetable-patches.  And  the  boatmen, 
slipping  out  at  nightfall  in  their  feluccas,  sent  over 
the  water  clear,  wailing  calls,  that  rose  to  the  head- 
land through  the  stillness. 

But  on  that  hilltop,  despite  the  peaceful  beauty  of 
every  hour,  despite  the  continual  recurrence  of  trivial 
words  and  simple  occupations,  they  lived,  and  three 
of  them  knew  they  lived,  on  the  brink  of  a  volcano. 


286  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

One  morning,  unexpectedly,  there  came  a  premoni- 
tory tremor. 

The  Maresciallo  appeared,  with  two  of  his  cara- 
bineers. Before  any  one  heard  or  saw  them,  they 
were  on  the  terrace.  They  wore  their  fatigue-dress 
— short  coats,  flat  caps,  ankle-boots,  and  cartridge- 
boxes.  But  the  climb  had  not  disarranged  the  natti- 
ness  of  their  uniforms,  or  ruffled  their  habitual  seren- 
ity. Sebastian  noticed,  however,  that  in  addition  to 
their  revolvers,  all  carried  carbines. 

The  Marshal  smiled  amiably. 

"Where's  Annibale,  Signore?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"But  not  far  away,  I  fancy?  I  have  some  ques- 
tions to  ask  him.  If  you  could  break  the  news  to 
him,  so  that  he'd  not  get  excited  and  lose  his  head, 
you'd  be  doing  him  a  favor." 

And  the  soldier  showed  all  his  teeth,  beneath  his 
large,  blond  mustache,  in  a  sympathetic  way. 

At  that  moment,  Annibale  came  round  the  corner 
of  the  house,  and  halted  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

The  Maresciallo  at  once  advanced  on  him  jauntily. 
The  two  other  carabineers  stepped  quickly  to  one 
side,  so  as  to  keep  both  of  Annibale's  hands  in  view. 
But  poor  Annibale's  expression  of  chagrin  pro- 
claimed, with  sufficient  frankness,  that  they  had 
caught  him  unprepared.  Then  his  face  became  al- 
most half-witted  in  its  blankness.  He  looked  at  the 
Maresciallo  as  if  he  had  never  seen  a  carabineer 
before. 

"Annibale,  where  is  Nino?" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  287 

"Nino!" 

" Little  Nino,  with  the  crooked  eyes." 

" Where  is  he,  you  ask  me?" 

"That's  what  I  ask  you,  Annibale." 

"Nino?  .  .  ." 

"So  I  said." 

"Eh.  .  .  .  Is  it  a  new  joke,  then,  down  there?" 

"I'm  not  likely  to  climb  up  here,  Annibale,  just 
for  a  joke." 

The  other's  face  assumed  a  childish  grin. 

"Daweru?  But  so  it  would  appear,  all  the  same, 
if  you  make  the  climb  to  ask  me  where  is  Nino!" 

"He's  vanished  from  the  village." 

"So?" 

"These  three  days." 

"Capers!  He  goes  and  comes,  does  that  fellow! 
Perhaps  he's  off  to  Naples  again." 

"By  swimming,  I  suppose?" 

"Who  knows  that?  Or,  maybe,  when  he  was  fish- 
ing with  old  Ilario,  at  night,  he  fell  overboard?  For 
sometimes  old  Ilario,  as  you  must  know,  is  rather 
hasty.  .  .  .  Or,  if  he  had  a  little  difference  with 
some  one,  perhaps  they  rowed  out  and  fought  the 
duel  of  oars?  But  to  ask  me!  Blood-pudding! 
News  isn't  made  up  here,  Signur  Maresciallu!" 

The  soldier,  approaching  his  face  close  to  Anni- 
bale's,  retorted: 

"All  the  same,  you  know  what's  become  of  him." 

Annibale  glanced  at  Sebastian,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  helplessly. 

"What  can  one  say?    It's  a  plot  to  arrest  me,  so 


288  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

that  old  Ilario  can  stab  me  as  they  lead  me  through 
the  village  handcuffed." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Annibale,"  remarked  the  Mar- 
shal. "Or  pretend  to  take  me  for  one." 

"Then  you're  not  going  to  arrest  me?" 

"Not  yet.     But  when  I  find  him " 

Annibale  nodded  solemnly. 

"Find  him,  Signur  Maresciallu,  by  all  means. 
And  arrest  me  or  not,  as  you  choose.  What's  Nino 
to  me?  Now,  if  it  had  been  old  Ilario!" 

The  Marshal  turned  to  Sebastian. 

"Always  so.  The  last  one  of  them  is  a  maffioso! 
Still,  we  must  make  the  inquiry.  Now  and  then  they 
give  themselves  away.  Not  often!" 

"But  surely " 

The  soldier  shook  his  head.  While  he  still  smiled 
with  perfect  amiability,  his  frank  friendliness  of 
other  days  had  vanished.  He  would  only  say: 

"We  shall  see,  Signore.    A  rivederla." 

"Some  wine,  at  least?" 

"Many  thanks,  not  to-day.  My  respects  to  the 
Signora.  Arrividirchi,  Annibale." 

"  Arrividirchi,  Signur  Maresciallu" 

The  carabineers  departed.  .  .  . 

That  evening,  while  Annibale  was  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  porch,  rocking  his  son  in  his  arms,  Se- 
bastian asked  him  quietly: 

"My  friend,  how  did  you  dispose  of  Nino?" 

The  young  man  stopped  his  lullaby.  He  peered  at 
Sebastian  askance.  Then,  at  last,  his  handsome  face 
was  twisted  into  a  smile  of  almost  boyish  malicious- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  289 

ness.  And,  as  he  swayed  the  baby  gently  to  and  fro, 
he  murmured: 

"  Signuri,  I  bestowed  him  on  the  Old  Ones.  ..." 

No  more  was  said.  .  .  .  And  Sebastian  did  not  see 
the  carabineers  again  till  the  next  steam-boat  day. 

On  that  occasion,  when  he  reached  the  harbor  the 
ship,  punctual  for  once,  had  already  made  its  visit. 
But  on  the  esplanade,  half  the  village  was  clustered 
round  a  curious-looking  stranger — a  swarthy,  bony 
creature,  not  tall  but  with  enormous  shoulders,  clad 
in  a  red  flannel  undershirt  and  green  cotton  drawers 
ornamented  with  tattered  galloons  in  yellow  worsted. 
Posturing  on  a  strip  of  carpet,  he  rattled  a  handful 
of  metal  rings,  and  shouted,  while  his  eyes  rolled 
idiotically: 

"Now  they're  separate!  Now  I'll  make  them  sin- 
gle! One!  Two!  Two  and  a  half " 

His  rolling  eyes  rested  on  Sebastian's  face,  then 
jumped  to  another. 

"Three!    Eccot" 

The  rings  jangled  into  a  chain.  The  mountebank, 
with  a  whoop,  set  a  peacock's  feather  on  his  nose,  and 
ran  round  the  circle,  bawling: 

"Impossible!    Impossible!    Impossible!" 

He  spoke  with  the  Neapolitan  accent. 

At  Sebastian's  elbow  popped  up  a  broken-nosed 
fellow  with  the  wreck  of  a  guitar  slung  over  his  back. 
Thrusting  forward  a  battered  metal  tray,  he  whined : 

"Have  charity  on  the  poor  jugglers!" 

Sebastian  tossed  some  coppers  on  the  tray,  ap- 
praised the  two  vagabonds  at  a  glance,  and  went  to 


2  QO  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

the  water-front.  He  had  no  doubt  that  this  was  the 
result  of  Nino's  letter. 

"Rather  clever,  their  make-up!  They  evidently 
have  brains.  Or  the  ones  who  sent  them  have." 

On  the  sand,  the  Marshal  saluted  him  with  careful 
courtesy. 

"Two  trunks  for  you,  Signore,  in  the  Dogana." 

"Good.    And  letters?" 

"So  I  believe." 

The  carabineer  touched  his  cocked  hat  again,  and 
turned  away.  Sebastian  reflected: 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?  It  can  hardly  be 
his  suspicion  of  Annibale?" 

As  he  glanced  toward  the  Grand  Cafe  of  the  Sea, 
to  meet  the  stony  stares  of  old  Ilario,  Big  Paganni, 
and  half  a  dozen  more,  he  felt  that  no  one  was  left 
in  Torregiante  village  not  secretly  hostile  to  him. 
Save  perhaps  the  priest? 

In  the  Dogana,  two  steamer-trunks  were  waiting 
for  him,  corded  and  sealed.  He  bargained  to  have 
them  carried  half-way  up  the  hill,  where  Annibale 
could  find  them.  Then  he  went  to  the  post-office. 

A  dirty  young  fellow,  his  mustache  coquettishly 
curled,  a  rose  stuck  over  his  ear,  admitted  resentfully 
that  there  were  letters. 

Two  were  from  Tunis.  The  first  was  written  os- 
tensibly by  the  Russian  consular  agent  there.  The 
second,  well  sealed,  contained  money,  the  trunk-keys, 
and  Disnisius'  note.  Sebastian  scanned  it  rapidly: 

Please  excuse  delays.  Certain  matters  have  made  a  great  stir. 
Even  when  I  reached  Naples,  there  has  been  some  one  interested 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  291 

of  me,  but  not,  I  think,  in  regular  authority.  However  so,  I  man- 
aged to  show  the  heels:  but  time  was  taken  thus.  .  .  .  Rest  as- 
sured of  yr  Ex's  scarf-pins.  I  go  now  to  Balikisri,  because  yr 
Ex  orders.  But  I  was  preferring  to  be  with  yr  Ex  in  this: 
moment.  .  .  . 

11  Stupid  ass!  He'd  better  prefer  to  save  his  skin," 
Sebastian  muttered,  with  a  feeling  of  half -contemptu- 
ous affection. 

But  he  realized  that  he  held  another  letter  in 
his  hand.  It  was  addressed,  like  the  rest,  to  "Sa- 
ranin  Schapposchnikoff."  But  it  was  postmarked 
"Roma!" 

He  ripped  it  open.  The  signature!  "Ernesto 
Sangallo!  .  .  ." 

The  words  danced  before  his  eyes.  His  surround- 
ings turned  black.  From  out  of  doors,  the  screech  of 
the  mountebank  reached  him  faintly: 

"Impossible!    Impossible!    Impossible!  ..." 

Finally,  he  made  out: 

My  dear  friend,  one  must  really  envy  you  the  placidity  of  your 
retreat,  so  far  from  the  social  vortex,  always  revolving  in  its  wild 
and  futile  repetitions.  Though  perhaps  I  should  not  say  that. 
Because  nothing,  after  all,  is  really  futile. 

Yes,  the  rigadoon  goes  on,  though  some  of  the  dancers  are  miss- 
ing. Princess  Betty  is  in  Baden-Baden.  Don  Livio  is  in  Lon- 
don. There  has  been  another  plague  of  scurrilous  anonymous 
letters  in  Rome.  Tito  has  let  his  regiment  go  hang,  and  I  under- 
stand he  is  travelling  in  Austria.  I  came  back  from  Piedmont 
just  too  late  to  see  him.  I  am  sorry  for  that.  However,  things 
•work  out.  .  .  . 

Andreas  Romanovitch  you  would  hardly  know,  perhaps. 
Though  to  me  he  does  not  seem  changed.  But  he  never  saw  the 
Innocenti  again!  Now  she  is  singing  in  Paris.  Hector  de 


292  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Chaumont  is  there,  I  think,  on  leave.  But  Mme.  Berthe  is  going 
to  spend  the  summer  with  little  Donna  Dora  at  the  Brazzazza 
stronghold  in  Umbria.  Andreas  has  constituted  himself  their 
cavaliere  servente.  So,  in  analysis,  there  is  good  with  less  good, 
in  Rome  as  in  every  fermentation.  .  .  . 

The  Pincio  and  the  Piazza  Colonna  are  deserts.  One  sees 
nobody — except  the  sort  of  people  who  keep  our  country  alive.  .  .  . 

Sebastian  sped  through  the  remainder  with  pound- 
ing heart.  Gossip!  A  jest  or  two!  Even  a  grace- 
ful compliment!  And  nothing  else! 

No  mention  of  Ghirlaine  Bellamy. 

Sangallo  knew!  Yet,  in  this  notice  that  the  sword 
was  actually  falling,  the  man  could  prattle,  meander, 
touch  every  point  except  the  vital  one ! 

"  So,  even  in  him  the  old,  ferocious  playfulness  of 
the  arena-haunters  crops  out!" 

What  if  they  had  arrived  already,  the  rescuers? 

He  regained  the  villa  in  a  daze.    To  Annibale: 

"No  visitors?" 

"Visitors,  Signuri!" 

Fannia  came  out  into  the  portico,  the  baby  in  her 
arms.  Sebastian  lowered  his  voice: 

"My  baggage  is  here.  We  have  two  rifles  now. 
Load  your  own." 

"It's  always  loaded,  Signuri." 

"No  more  people  must  catch  us  sitting  round  with 
empty  hands." 

"Ah.    Nino's  friends  have  arrived? " 

"Nino's  friends?    Oh,  yes.    They've  arrived." 

He  had  forgotten  them. 

"We  shall  have  others  also,  Annibale." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  293 

"The  carabineers?" 

"Them,  too,  without  a  doubt." 

The  young  man  answered  steadily,  but  with  a 
leaping  eye: 

"Very  well,  Signuri.  We  shall  know  how  to  re- 
ceive as  many  and  various  as  like  to  come,  so  the 
Madonna  gives  us  wit." 

He  walked  to  the  house,  pinched  his  baby's  cheek, 
and  went  in  for  his  rifle. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  trunks  were  brought  up  next  morning.  Se- 
bastian Maure's  first  care  was  to  make  sure  of  the 
Mauser  rifle  and  the  cartridges.  His  next  was  to 
assemble  the  things  Disnisius  had  sent  for  Ghirlaine's 
use. 

The  rascal  had  not  done  badly!  Indeed,  Sebas- 
tian surmised  that  feminine  advice,  in  Tunis  or  else- 
where, was  responsible  for  his  choice. 

There  were  several  dresses,  of  duck,  blue  serge,  and 
linen,  in  excellent  taste.  There  was  even  a  simple 
evening-gown  of  rose-pink  chiffon.  Sebastian  dug 
out  a  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  trimmed  with  wheat 
and  poppies,  shoes  of  buckskin  and  tan,  a  green  par- 
asol, a  quantity  of  white-silk  stockings  and  lingerie. 
He  found  Paris  scents  and  soaps,  creams,  powders, 
and  dentifrice,  nail-scissors  and  files,  combs,  brushes, 
hair-pins  of  yellow  amber. 

And  mingled  with  all  those  dainty  objects  were 
boxes  of  Havana  cigars,  Turkish  cigarettes  in  tins,  a 
pair  of  binoculars,  bottles  of  Irish  whiskey,  a  tiffin- 
basket,  a  writing-case,  potted  truffles  and  caviare, 
the  latest  French  novels.  Grinning,  despite  himself, 
at  that  mixture  of  furbelows,  refreshments,  and  am- 
munition, he  thought: 

"Devil  take  the  fellow !  He  must  have  been  unde- 
cided whether  to  pack  for  a  picnic  or  a  battle." 

294 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  295 

But  his  smile  faded.  To  Fannia,  who  was  gaping 
in  through  the  window,  he  said,  in  a  lifeless  voice: 

"Carry  all  this  woman's  stuff  to  the  Signura. 
And  to-night,  when  she's  asleep,  do  away  with  those 
clothes  she's  been  wearing.  Throw  them  into  the 
sea." 

With  his  rifle  and  the  binoculars  he  went  down  the 
hillside  to  relieve  Annibale. 

They  had  chosen,  on  the  slope,  a  screen  of  agaves 
from  which  to  watch  the  open  ground  about  the 
village.  In  daytime,  no  one  could  ascend  toward  the 
headland,  or  make  for  the  northern  heights,  without 
their  perceiving  him.  But  at  night  the  problem  grew 
complex.  Then  the  sentinel  had  to  lie  on  the  roof, 
and  scan  the  clearing  about  the  house  by  starlight. 
At  dawn,  the  adjacent  thickets  would  have  to  be 
searched  at  the  point  of  a  gun. 

If  the  priest  came  up,  he  was  to  advance  in  peace. 
The  carabineers  were  to  be  received  according  to  the 
hour,  and  their  demeanor  on  setting  out.  Children, 
the  favorite  decoys  in  Sicilian  warfare,  were  to  pass 
to  the  top,  their  hails  unanswered.  If  any  others  ap- 
peared, the  plan  was  to  shoot  first  and  question 
afterward. 

All  the  windows  were  covered,  their  shutters 
pierced  by  loop-holes.  The  doors  were  fitted  with 
bars.  The  larder  was  stocked.  The  villa  had  be- 
come a  fort. 

Ghirlaine  realized  that  a  crisis  was  present.  She 
had  seen  the  steam-boat  come  in.  She  had  thought 
of  her  post-card,  and  wondered  if  Sangallo  might  not 


296  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

already  be  in  Torregiante.  But  when  Fannia  began 
to  bring  into  her  room  armfuls  of  new  dresses,  she 
abandoned  this  hope. 

Then  what  had  happened? 

Fannia  could  tell  her,  or  preferred  to  tell  her,  noth- 
ing. The  peasant's  handsome  face  was  set  in  stony 
misery.  To  the  questions  that  Ghirlaine  put  to  her  in 
halting  Sicilian,  Fannia  merely  raised  her  shoulders, 
rolled  her  eyes,  and  responded,  heavily: 

"Eh,  this  is  men's  business,  Signura — may  God 
forgive  them!" 

And  she  went  about  her  work,  her  bare  feet  of  a 
savage  dragging  over  the  tiles,  her  deep  bosom  heav- 
ing with  sighs  suppressed,  her  strong  features  chang- 
ing, now  and  then,  from  apprehension  to  that  dumb 
stoicism  with  which  half-aboriginal  women  endure 
the  feuds  of  their  loved  ones.  At  times,  Ghirlaine 
heard  her  praying  in  her  room,  to  the  image  of  the 
Madonna.  Afterward,  her  low  brow  would  be 
smoother. 

"Don't  fret  yourself,  Signura.  It's  our  lot,  that's 
all.  Men  must  do  their  work  in  the  world,  and  we 
ours.  We're  made  to  give  life,  and  they  to  take  it. 
Worry  won't  change  the  fact.  .  .  ." 

She  added: 

"As  for  that,  if  our  men  were  different,  we  should 
have  no  use  for  them!  For  after  all,  it's  because 
they're  what  they  are  that  we  care  for  them.  To 
care  for  one  of  them,  of  course  he  must  be  un  onto — 
a  dare-devil.  That's  why  I  wouldn't  have  married 
the  postmaster,  even  if  there  had  been  no  Annibale. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  297 

A  poor  thing,  for  a  fact,  that  postmaster!  He'd 
have  thought  a  long  time,  I'll  warrant,  before  he'd 
have  jabbed  a  knife  into  any  one!" 

Ghirlaine  made  a  gesture  of  horror. 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  me  it's  such  things  that 
attract  the  women  of  these  parts  to  men!" 

"Eh!  Is  it  different  hi  other  places,  Holy  Virgin! 
What  else,  then,  should  make  us  give  ourselves  to 
them?  To  know,  when  they  put  their  hands  upon 
us,  'This  is  one  who  would  kill  me,  like  a  stroke  of 
lightning,  if  I  deceived  him — who  would  kill  any 
man  that  tried  to  take  me  from  him!'  Ai!  For  a 
fact,  that  makes  us  feel  that  we've  got  something 
worth  while  in  our  arms!" 

Ghirlaine  shuddered,  but  made  no  response.  And 
Fannia  mused: 

"Still,  one  pays,  at  a  time  like  this!  .  .  ." 

She  took  up  the  crying  baby,  rigid  in  his  tight 
swaddling-clothes  against  the  board,  and  calmly  un- 
fastened her  ragged  bodice. 

"But  if  I  worry  too  much  he  gets  a  colic.  That's 
it !  The  men  throw  the  stone,  and  the  ripples  spread 
and  spread.  ..." 

On  the  second  afternoon  of  this  new  tenseness, 
Ghirlaine  went  out,  and  lost  herself  in  the  brush. 
She  had  never  ventured  so  far  before.  But  she  felt 
the  need  of  getting  away  from  that  house  where  ter- 
rible things  seemed  tottering  to  a  crash. 

In  the  end,  she  gained  the  northern  cliffs.  The 
path  along  the  edge  of  the  precipice  tempted  her. 
Without  thought  of  danger,  she  followed  it  eastward. 


298  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

It  dipped  toward  the  little  valley  that  ran  out  to  the 
brink.  Amazed,  she  stared  down  at  the  Doric 
temple. 

For  the  moment,  she  forgot  everything  save  the 
beauty  of  that  ancient,  flower-grown  pile,  drenched 
with  sunshine  amid  the  foliage.  Then  she  advanced 
to  the  door.  The  sea  was  calm  to-day:  from  that 
narrow  portal  no  ghostly  voices  issued,  to  give  her 
pause.  Her  foot  was  on  the  threshold. 

Suddenly  the  sharp  cry: 

"Stop  where  you  are!" 

And  Sebastian,  Mauser  in  hand,  came  springing 
down  through  the  bushes  into  the  valley.  He  ap- 
proached her  quickly. 

"You  were  going  in  there?" 

This  time,  he  had  caught  her  off  her  guard.  Her 
heart-beats  commenced  to  suffocate  her.  But  she 
would  not  admit  her  fright.  She  uttered: 

"Why  not?" 

He  collected  himself.    In  ordinary  tones: 

"I  advise  a  guide." 

So  she  drew  back,  and  turned  away. 

Walking  beside  her,  he  began  quietly  to  relate  the 
legend  of  the  Old  Ones,  the  mystery  of  their  voices, 
the  tragedy  of  the  sailor  and  the  priest  He  de- 
scribed his  first  visit  there,  the  ingenuity  of  the  echo- 
well  and  the  pitfall. 

"You  see,  it's  the  sort  of  place  one  shouldn't  rush 
into  blindly.  If  you  like,  I'll  show  you  the  trap. 
But  you  must  promise  you'll  never  come  here  alone. 
There  are  other  dangers  than  that." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  299 

She  stopped,  looked  at  him  steadily,  and  retorted: 

"You  mean,  I  suppose,  that  I  might  meet  some 
one  whom  you're  expecting." 

"Quite  so.    But  not  the  one  you're  expecting." 

And  after  a  moment's  consideration,  he  told  her  of 
Nino,  the  letter  to  Naples,  the  coming  of  the  two- 
mountebanks.  Their  intention  was  obvious — to  spy, 
surprise,  kill,  steal,  and  escape  on  a  fishing-boat 
before  the  alarm. 

"To  be  sure,  Nino  won't  trouble  us  any  more. 
But  his  colleagues  will  be  all  the  keener — not  to  say 
nastier — now  that  it's  become  a  vendetta  of  blood.  .  .  . 
Besides,  that  must  have  been  a  rosy  prospectus  he 
sent  off,  to  bring  two  such  capable  Camorristi  all  this 
way.  Do  you  mind  my  asking  what  you  gave  him, 
to  mail  that  card  to  Sangallo?" 

This  question  reached  her  like  the  last  of  a  succes- 
sion of  stunning  blows.  She  heard : 

"He  just  tore  it  up,  that  card,  and  threw  it  away. 
You  might  almost  as  well  have  handed  it  to  me! 
But  don't  be  discouraged.  They're  coming  anyhow. 
I  had  word  of  that  by  the  steamer.  You'll  soon  be 
free." 

He  stroked  the  butt  of  the  Mauser,  reflectively. 

"Was  it  diamonds?" 

What  use  for  subterfuge  now?  Her  lips  moved. 
At  last,  very  low: 

"I  gave  him  a  diamond  out  of  my  chain.  ..." 

"Ah.  Well,  now  we  must  see  that  they  don't  get 
the  rest — and  us,  in  the  bargain.  The  way  for  you 
to  help,  is  to  keep  to  the  villa.  Until  your  friends 
arrive.  ." 


300  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

He  inspected  her  critically. 

She  was  wearing  a  sage-green  linen  dress,  the  pop- 
py-trimmed hat,  and  tan  outing-boots.  The  things 
fitted  and  became  her.  They  were  from  the  best 
shops  in  Tunis,  and,  before  that,  from  Paris.  They 
seemed  nearly  to  reclothe  her  in  the  old,  fashionable 
simplicity  of  their  first  day  of  meeting. 

Her  dazed  wits  were  slow  to  comprehend  his  look. 
Finally,  however,  flushing,  she  responded: 

"Since  my  other  clothes  disappeared,  I  suppose  it 
was  your  idea  to  emphasize  as  much  as  possible  this — 
travesty  of  obligation.  ..." 

He  took  a  few  steps  to  and  fro.  His  face  smooth 
again,  he  returned  to  examine  her  costume  at- 
tentively. 

"That  dress  looks  surprisingly  well  to  me.  It 
can't  be  so  old — skirts  of  that  cut  were  only  coming 
out  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  in  March.  It's  a  curious 
thing:  I  associate  my  first  sight  of  them  with  a  bouil- 
labaisse and  a  quail  stewed  in  wine  and  green  grapes. 
And  that  was  my  last  luncheon  before  I  set  out  for 
Rome.  A  luncheon  that  approached  the  ideal.  The 
Paris  ideal,  I  mean,  of  course — not  Torregiante's. 
Ideals  vary  so,  don't  they?" 

She  could  only  stare  at  him.  He  seemed  to  have 
no  real  conception  either  of  his  position  or  that  to 
which  he  had  brought  her.  She  looked  at  his  broad, 
high  forehead — the  brow  of  an  intelligent  individual 
— and  wondered  what  normal  convolution  was  lack- 
ing behind  it.  And  she  had,  all  at  once,  a  desire  to 
fathom  the  secret  of  this  extraordinarily  misshapen 
nature. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  301 

She  said: 

"Tell  me  this:  is  it  safe  to  be  here  now?" 

"If  it  weren't,  I  shouldn't  allow  it." 

"Then,  since  we're  here  .  .  ." 

He  was  right:  the  time  had  passed  for  any  small 
subterfuges  between  them.  Their  situation  had 
raised  them,  at  last,  even  in  antagonism,  to  a  plane 
where  anything  but  frankness  seemed  petty. 

He  took  off  his  coat,  rolled  it  up,  and  laid  it  across 
a  bowlder,  in  the  shade  of  an  oleander.  She  sat 
down.  He  lighted  a  cigar.  Savoring  the  excellent 
tobacco  luxuriously,  he  gazed  with  half-shut  eyes  out 
to  sea,  toward  the  invisible  coast  of  Italy.  Noth- 
ing in  his  demeanor  betrayed  his  intense  satisfac- 
tion. 

She  asked: 

"Does  the  steamer  come  from  there?" 

"From  the  northeast."  He  pointed  to  the  right. 
"Sicily  lies  off  there.  But  Sangallo  will  probably 
arrive  direct  from  the  north." 

She  nodded.    After  a  pause: 

"Awhile  ago  you  spoke  of  ideals.  I  should  like  to 
know  what  that  word  means  to  you." 

"An  ideal?  .  .  .  Why,  the  hope  of  some  gratifica- 
tion that  doesn't  exist." 

"Some  gratification." 

"Certainly.  Since  there  are  all  sorts  of  gratifica- 
tion— physical  and  spiritual,  aesthetic  and  intellect- 
ual, sensuously  and  ascetically  religious,  logical  and 
emotional,  what  do  I  know?  One  nature  is  drawn 
toward  one  sort,  another  to  another,  some  natures  to 


302  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

nearly  all.  But  the  attainable  gratification  is  never 
perfect.  There's  always,  I  think,  in  whatever  human 
achievement,  a  sense  of  something  lacking,  a  feeling 
of  incompleteness,  an  inner  conviction,  of  merely 
semi-victory,  that's  akin  to  defeat.  In  realizing  one's 
dream,  one  finds  that  it's  not  what  one  expected. 
.  .  .  The  true  artist  gazes  at  the  completed  fabric 
with  a  subtle  despondency.  The  visionary,  who  has 
arranged  the  problems  of  life  to  his  satisfaction,  has 
now  and  then,  I'll  wager,  a  sense  of  profound  un- 
certainty. .  .  .  The  lover,  after  the  intoxication  of 
the  first  embrace,  understands  that  the  woman  he 
loves  must  be  a  makeshift  for  something  he  imagined 
her  to  be." 

From  under  his  lowered  eyelids  he  sent  at  her  a 
swift  look.  That  shot  had  told!  For  presently,  in 
a  sharpened  tone,  she  returned: 

"A  man  with  that  opinion  should  hardly  be  the  one 
to  wreck  everything,  for  the  disillusion  that  he  ex- 
pects beforehand!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But  men  are  made  like  that!  None  is  so  disillu- 
sioned as  to  be  incapable  of  one  more  illusion.  None 
is  so  sane  that  he  doesn't  contain  the  capacity  for  an 
aberration  into  idealism.  The  atheist  dreams,  per- 
haps, of  perfection  in  some  art.  The  man  who  knows 
nothing  of  art  sees  a  vision,  maybe,  of  his  socialistic 
world.  The  saint  and  the  sensualist  suffer,  in  the 
last  analysis,  from  the  same  unquenchable  thirst. 
It's  the  ineradicable  mental  malady  of  mankind." 

She  answered: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  303 

"It's  the  ineradicable  proof  of  divinity  in  man- 
kind." 

And,  as  he  made  no  reply: 

"With  your  scientific  training,  and  your  reputed 
perception  of  life,  one  would  think  it  might  have 
occurred  to  you  that  the  world  is  forever  moving! 
That  everything  is  constantly  changing,  refashioning 
itself,  developing,  and  aspiring.  These  very  flowers 
aren't  what  they  were  once.  They  plan  their  lives. 
They  alter  their  physical  structure  for  the  better. 
They  show  an  intelligence,  a  persistence,  a  bravery, 
that  looks  all  the  while  toward  the  future,  toward 
their  perpetuity — one  might  as  well  say,  toward  their 
immortality.  And  this  same  force  is  hi  everything. 
It's  intent  on  improvement.  It's  born  of  a  belief  in 
something  higher  to  come.  It's  bound  to  attain  an 
ideal.  .  .  .  That  trust,  implanted  in  all  nature — 
have  you  really  never  recognized  it,  or  seen  the  won- 
der of  it,  or  felt  some  kinship  with  it?  " 

He  smiled,  while  responding: 

"Your  example's  rather  an  unfortunate  one.  You 
speak  of  flowers,  and  their  experiments  in  the  cause 
of  procreation.  You  should  know  that  it's  not  im- 
mortality they  aspire  to,  but  love.  Love  happens  to 
be  the  force  that  perpetuates  the  world.  The  su- 
preme motive-power.  The  force,  in  fact,  that  has 
brought  us  here.  .  .  .  Instead  of  praising  the  flowers 
for  their  charming  efforts,  you'd  better  blame  them, 
to  be  thoroughly  consistent.  For  all  their  ingenuity 
is  merely  a  counterpart  of  mine,  to  attain  the  object 
of  my  desires." 


304  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

For  a  while  she  was  silent.     In  the  end: 

"It's  useless,  our  ever  talking  together!" 

"Why  so?" 

"We  speak  of  such  things  in  different  tongues." 

"Pardon  me.  If  it's  love  you  mean,  there's  only 
one  language  in  the  world  for  that.  But  perhaps, 
after  all,  you've  never  wandered  into  the  regions 
where  that  language  is  learned?  ..." 

He  scrutinized  her  cold  profile  intently,  then  added, 
as  if  in  pity: 

"  And  possibly  never  will.  ..." 

She  stood  up,  tingling  to  her  finger-tips  with  an 
indignation  that  she  did  not  know  how  to  put  into 
words.  She  could  only  flash  forth  at  him: 

"I  see  more  clearly  than  ever  how  many  doors  are 
shut  to  you!" 

He  rose  at  once  to  his  feet,  threw  away  his  cigar, 
then  returned: 

"Possibly.  But  has  it  ever  entered  your  mind 
that  to  you,  also,  a  few  doors  may  be  shut?  ...  I 
fancy  that  all  your  life  you've  heard  nothing  from 
men  but  flattery.  Suppose  you  heard  now  a  little 
of  something  else?" 

She  lifted  her  head.     Her  lip  curled. 

"That  would  hardly  astonish  me!" 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her  with  a  new  expres- 
sion. She  had  a  shock  of  surprise,  of  bewilderment. 
Was  it  contempt? 

Suddenly  she  laughed  aloud,  in  a  voice  that  she 
did  not  recognize.  That  would  be  too  droll! 

His  eyes  blazed.     He  exclaimed: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  305 

"Precisely.  If  you  had  learned  even  the  rudi- 
ments of  that  language,  we  shouldn't  be  here  now  dis- 
cussing a  mixture  of  metaphysics  and  botany !  Long 
since,  you'd  have  responded  instinctively,  as  if  obe- 
dient to  the  very  voice  of  Destiny,  to  a  situation,  a 
climax  of  life,  a  passion,  so  transcendental.  .  .  . 
But,  as  it  is,  you  happen  to  be  the  last  word  in  emo- 
tional inaccessibility.  In  you  there  exists  only  cold 
egotism,  self-retention,  an  almost  incredibly  unfemi- 
nine  heartlessness.  You're  not  to  be  influenced  by 
however  powerful  an  external  passion.  Your  heart 
can't  make  the  response  that  is  made  in  voluntarily , 
in  fully  developed  individuals,  to  an  overwhelming 
desire.  Your  affections,  if  ever  you  feel  them,  must 
always  have  the  pallidity,  and  the  coldness,  of  utter 
selfishness.  Your  life  with  Pamfort  was  going  to  be  a 
sort  of  sentimental  minuette — a  travesty  of  real  love, 
that  your  nominal  physical  submission  would  have 
made  more  degrading  than  the  least  inspired  of  all 
those  liaisons  up  there  in  Rome!" 

A  low  laugh  escaped  him. 

"Ah,  but  I  read  your  thoughts  a  while  ago!  You 
were  wondering  just  where  I  was  deficient.  But  with 
you,  I  don't  have  to  speculate.  You  have  no  fibre 
in  you  capable  of  submission,  of  self-surrender,  of 
defiance  of  all  the  world  for  the  most  intense  thing 
you'll  ever  have  in  your  life,  of  abandonment  to  the 
natural  joy  of  your  sex — not  of  receiving,  but  of  giv- 
ing. .  .  .  But  then,  you're  not  a  natural  woman.  If 
you  have  the  external  appearance,  you  lack  all  the 
significant  inner  organism.  A  statue  in  a  temple 


306  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

may  not  be  more  beautiful  to  look  at,  but  it  will 
repay  its  devotees  just  as  lavishly.  .  .  .  Up  there,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  you  must  awake — become  human. 
Another  ideal!  For  if  you  couldn't  respond  to  what 
I've  felt,  you'll  never  respond.  No:  you  were  born 
to  promise  much,  and  give  nothing.  To  destroy  the 
hopes  you  raise.  To  prove  once  more  the  folly  of  the 
ideal. 

"But  why  do  I  say  all  this?  You  can't  under- 
stand me." 

For  an  instant,  she  remained  numb.  Then,  grad- 
ually fury  spread  through  her.  She  found  her 
voice: 

"Ah!  This  outdoes  all  the  rest!  Because  such  a 
man  as  you  can't  evoke  it,  it  doesn't  exist!  .  .  . 
Yes,  thank  God,  we  do  speak  to  each  other  in  differ- 
ent languages!  ..." 

"One  generally  takes  pride  in  his  deficiencies." 

"You  say  that!" 

Ignoring  that  speech,  he  looked  at  her  with  a 
frigid  keenness,  as  he  had  never  looked  at  her  before. 
He  said: 

"For  you  are  a  deficient,  you  know.  There  are 
certain  exaltations  that  you  can  never  feel.  Once 
on  a  time,  you  commiserated  with  me,  because  I 
couldn't  realize  a  Divinity.  To-day  I  commiserate 
with  you,  because  fields  of  consciousness  just  as  vast 
will  always  be  closed  to  you.  You'll  die  without 
having  lived,  that's  all." 

Her  face  twitching,  her  anger  choking  her,  she  got 
out  the  words: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  307 

"You  know  in  your  heart  that's  false!  You  know 
that  if  you  could  be  in  his  place " 

"Pamfort?  Ah,  he'll  be  satisfied,  perhaps.  He's 
one  more  who'll  always  skim  the  surface  of  things, 
and  imagine  he's  living.  I  wish  you  joy  of  each 
other." 

This  last  insult  was  too  much.  She  could  hardly 
repress  her  desire  to  spring  at  him  and  strike  him. 
And,  with  her  fury — a  fury  utterly  new  to  her — she 
had  a  sensation  of  profound  humiliation,  of  baffle- 
ment, of  loss.  She  had  counted  on  his  passion  being  a 
part  of  his  punishment.  But  now  his  passion  seemed 
done  for? 

"One  would  say  .  .  .  you  were  almost  ready  to  let 
me  go !  ...  If  only  you'd  reached  these  conclusions 
sooner!  .  .  .  You  might  have  gone  on,  a  while  longer, 
in  your  precious  career,  of  shamelessness,  and  useless- 
ness." 

" Uselessness?    Is  it  you  who  say  that?" 

He  stared  at  her  in  apparent  curiosity,  then  de- 
manded: 

"I  presume  you  don't  visualize  yourself  at  all? 
.  .  .  Your  past  life,  full  of  luxury,  of  refining  in- 
fluences, of  elegant  training — what's  it  been  for? 
Your  superb  acceptance  of  fortune  with  what  return? 
Do  you  know  that  off  there,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  countless  men  are  laboring  with  their  muscles 
and  nerves,  from  morning  till  night,  enduring  danger 
and  weariness  in  a  hundred  forms,  growing  old  before 
their  time,  to  give  you  your  position  in  life?  They 
bought  you  your  way  into  high  places.  They  dressed 


308  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

you  in  silks  and  jewels.  They  fed  you  with  foods 
that  they  had  never  imagined.  They  surrounded 
you  with  the  homage  of  courts.  But  what  have  you 
ever  paid  back?  And  what  will  you  ever  pay?  By 
Jove,  if  we're  to  talk  of  uselessness,  we're  in  the  same 
box,  you  and  I!" 

He  concluded,  calmly: 

"You  understand,  I  don't  blame  you.  By  the 
same  token,  I  don't  blame  myself.  We  take  what  we 
can,  and  we  give  what  we  feel  like  giving.  The  fact 
remains,  however,  that  from  the  world's  point  of 
view — the  point  of  view  you  value  so  highly — we're 
just  a  couple  of  parasites  together." 

She  fell  back  a  pace,  as  if  that  had  been  a  blow. 
But  he  said: 

"One  day,  in  Rome,  I  saw  a  strange  thing.  In  a 
studio,  a  man  and  a  woman  together.  A  sculptor 
and  a  young  peasant-girl.  .  .  ." 

His  eyes  turned  blank,  as  he  contemplated  the 
memory  of  that  scene. 

"She'd  come  to  his  door,  a  model.  A  beautiful 
creature,  with  the  splendor  of  something  wild  and 
original.  That  dress  you  have  on  would  have  made 
her  ridiculous.  Your  jewels  would  have  cheapened 
her.  She  was  formed  for  archaic  garments,  for  goat- 
skins, for  nudity. 

"And  her  heart  was  like  that.  Hot,  impulsive, 
capable  of  deep  passions,  sacrifices,  crimes.  The 
heart  of  a  being  intensely  human,  unrefined,  un- 
spoiled— fresh,  as  it  were,  from  the  youth  of  the 
world.  A  natural  creature. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  309 

"  They  loved  each  other.  The  simplicity  and  fear- 
lessness of  that  love  belonged  to  the  age  she  seemed  a 
part  of.  Indeed,  they  were  made  for  each  other — 
two  natures  almost  unique  to-day,  but  quite  oblivi- 
ous to  the  anachronism  of  their  surroundings.  They 
gave  each  other  everything.  And  the  result  was 
wonderful. 

"For  him  I'm  sure  she  was  the  cause  of  great  work. 
I  know  very  little  of  his  past  life.  I  don't  know  how 
much  she  developed  him — that  humble  instrument. 
But  I  know  that  in  her  he  found  his  dreams  come 
true.  Dreams,  I  mean,  of  an  art  of  marvellous  vigor 
and  health,  inexpressibly  pure,  with  the  purity,  so  to 
say,  of  the  dawn  of  life. 

"And  what  he's  done,  since  they  came  together, 
has  been  an  inspiration  to  lives  about  them.  United, 
they've  attained,  through  the  interaction  of  love  and 
work,  a  peculiar  majesty  of  value.  Even  I  could 
feel  that,  when  I  looked  at  a  certain  thing  he'd  done. 
In  that  marble,  as  well  as  in  them,  there  was  an  inde- 
scribable incentive  toward  change,  a  force  that  im- 
pelled one,  irresistibly,  to  seek.  .  .  .  What  I  felt  it's 
difficult  to  explain.  I  may  not  know  very  clearly 
myself,  even  now.  .  .  .But  there  came  to  me  a  need 
of  air,  space,  solitude,  nature,  and  of  a  love,  and  all 
its  attendant  emotions,  appropriate  to  that.  And 
because  my  mind  was  continually  full  of  you,  I 
thought,  'If  only ' 

"Chance  and  impulse  produced  the  opportunity. 
But  I  had  misjudged  my  instrument.  Behind  her, 
one  may  say  there  was  nothing.  Behind  you,  there 


310  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

was  far  too  much.  She  remained  intensely  a  woman. 
You,  by  comparison,  had  practically  ceased  to  be 
one.  Not  your  fault,  naturally — but  mine.  An  error 
of  comprehension.  It  seemed  to  me,  up  there,  that 
you  must  contain  so  much — even  that !  .  .  . 

"All  the  same,  consider  the  vitality  of  the  ideal! 
That  vague,  untranslatable  desire  still  clings  to  me. 
If  I  could  begin  all  over,  I'd  try  again." 

And,  looking  her  in  the  eyes,  he  ended: 

"But  now  I  believe  I'd  go  to  a  savage,  like  her,  in 
that  search." 

She  managed  to  gasp: 

"A  savage!  .  .  .  Surely!  .  .  .  For  that's  what 
you  are!  .  .  ." 

She  sent  one  more  flash  at  him.  But  it  seemed  to 
fall  midway  between  them.  She  left  him,  blinded 
and  suffocated  by  a  frenzy  of  impotence. 

In  the  villa,  she  twisted  her  hands,  and  ground  her 
teeth  together. 

To  kill  him!  To  see  him  dead!  Or  rather,  to  see 
him  dying! 

The  sight  of  her  face  in  the  mirror  turned  her  mo- 
tionless, cold  all  over. 

For  she  saw  the  face  of  a  wild  thing,  a  savage.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SEBASTIAN  remained  before  the  temple,  looking 
out  toward  Italy. 

It  was  late  afternoon.  The  calm  sea  displayed,  on 
its  vast  expanse  of  blue,  long  lines  of  light,  some  sil- 
very, some  copper-colored.  To  the  north,  a  little 
clump  of  lateen-sails  was  floating  in — four  flecks  of 
palest  gold.  But  nowhere  did  any  other  craft  appear. 

"Why  don't  they  come?  .  .  ." 

He  put  away  his  binoculars  reluctantly.  He  would 
have  preferred,  to-day,  to  meet  the  issue,  and  have 
done  with  it. 

Just  now,  while  looking  at  her  altered  face,  in  the 
midst  of  his  attack  he  had  realized  completely  all  that 
he  had  done  to  her.  And  there  had  come  to  him  a 
desire  to  escape  as  soon  as  might  be  into  oblivion. 

In  this  spot,  so  fair,  so  silent,  and  so  natural,  where 
simplicity  had  supplanted  extravagance,  where  fru- 
gality had  replaced  debauchery,  a  veil  of  fumy  emo- 
tions, which  had  stood  between  him  and  his  con- 
science for  years,  was  gradually  thinning.  His  past 
mode  of  life,  the  associations  toward  which  he  had 
always  gravitated  hitherto,  the  excesses  in  which  he 
had  steeped  himself,  the  perversities  augmented  by 
defiance,  would  all  have  been  impossible  here.  On 
this  isle,  despite  its  vivid  luxuriance,  its  bizarre 


312  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

exuberance  of  form  and  color,  an  influence  well- 
nigh  austere  enveloped  him  and  worked  upon  him. 
There  rose  from  the  earth  an  exhalation  of  unpol- 
luted nature.  The  sane  breeze  off  the  water  caught 
from  the  foliage  odors  mysteriously  reminiscent  of 
childhood.  The  sky  had  never  seemed  so  close  and 
yet  so  deep,  so  personal,  so  significant.  For  a  long 
while,  indeed,  he  had  almost  forgot  that  the  sky 
could  hold  other  significances  than  aesthetic  ones. 

The  hour  was  approaching  when  his  whole  or- 
ganism, the  mad  stimulation  of  years  dying  out  in  all 
its  fibres,  would  return  to  its  nearest  imitation  of 
normality.  ...  Of  what  feelings  would  he  be  ca- 
pable, then? 

Already,  at  any  rate,  remorse  was  creeping  into  his 
heart.  Remorse!  An  emotion  that  he  had  forgot- 
ten for  so  long  that  he  had  believed  himself  incapable 
of  it! 

He  turned  to  the  temple.  No  sound  issued  from 
the  door-way.  The  unusual  silence  was  like  a  cessa- 
tion of  menace,  a  mute  invitation  to  enter.  He  went 
inside. 

For  a  time,  by  the  light  of  tapers,  he  scanned  the 
simple,  rough-hewn  walls,  the  roof  so  finely  joined, 
the  humble  altar  at  the  far  end  of  the  chamber,  hold- 
ing in  its  hollowed  top,  after  all  these  centuries,  the 
ashes  of  an  ancient  offering.  One  would  have  said 
that  this  had  been  the  sanctuary  of  some  very  pure 
religion,  but  for  the  treacherous  pitfall. 

He  passed  round  the  trap,  and  approached  the  little 
altar.  As  his  eyes  roamed  over  the  wall  behind  it, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  313 

he  saw,  high  up,  an  inscription  in  archaic  Greek  that 
he  had  missed  before.    He  discerned  the  words: 


To  reach  my  altar,  that  part  of  you  which  you  have  loved 
best  must  be  destroyed. 

He  smiled  at  last. 

"The  pitfall  explained?  Symbolism  made  em- 
phatic with  a  vengeance!" 

The  taper  went  out.  In  the  darkness,  he  remained 
for  a  while  quite  motionless.  But  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  was  not  alone.  All  that  had  ever  come  to 
pass  in  that  little  sanctuary  of  an  unknown  faith,  all 
the  thoughts  and  prayers  and  hopes  that  had  been 
born  there,  rose  round  him,  in  the  obscurity,  animate 
once  more.  .  .  .  Or,  at  least,  he  felt  that  a  host  of 
strange  influences  were  assailing  him.  ...  Or  were 
those  influences  one  instead  of  many,  and  stirring, 
instead  of  round  about  him,  just  within  himself?  .  .  . 

The  Isle  of  Life!  What  had  it  meant  to  the  world, 
what  had  it  been,  what  force  had  it  exerted  on  its 
time  and  on  the  future,  before  the  centuries  had 
effaced  its  history? 

At  last,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  regained 
the  sunshine. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  headland,  half-way  down 
the  hill,  he  found  Annibale  behind  the  screen  of 
agaves,  watching  the  village. 

"What  have  you  seen?"  Sebastian  demanded,  sit- 
ting down  beside  the  sentinel,  and  offering  a  cigarette. 

"No  one  has  tried  to  come  up.     Two  of  Big  Pa- 


314  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

ganni's  children  are  on  the  southern  slope  with  the 
goats.  The  hermit  has  been  out  walking.  He 
showed  himself  on  the  eastern  ridge  an  hour  ago, 
then  passed  down  into  the  groves." 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  he?" 

"Of  course." 

"  It's  a  far  look.  From  here  no  one  could  make  out 
his  face." 

"Eh,  I  take  it  neither  of  Nino's  friends  knows  how 
to  carry  himself  like  a  Signuri." 

"The  hermit  carries  himself  like  a  Signuri!" 

"Gia!    Like  a  gentleman." 

"You  surprise  me.  All  the  hermits  that  I've  ever 
seen  were  dirty,  shambling  fellows  about  as  intelli- 
gent-looking as  gorillas." 

"It  needs  several  kinds  of  fish  to  make  up  God's 
netful!"  . 

Sebastian  gazed  down  at  the  village.  Despite  the 
clarity  of  the  air,  to-day  there  was  an  unusual  effect 
of  distance.  At  the  bottom  of  the  great  gray-green 
amphitheatre,  the  houses,  strewn  round  the  beach, 
looked  like  the  vertebrae  of  some  monster  cast  up  by 
the  deep.  The  few  little  figures,  moving  about  and 
between  them,  seemed  almost  like  ants.  Some  pur- 
plish threads — drying  nets — were  stretched  out  on  the 
sand.  Here  and  there,  from  the  water,  a  rowing-boat 
sent  thus  far  only  the  faded  red  of  its  interior — an 
impression  as  if  of  a  rose-petal  afloat.  The  esplanade 
was  deserted.  The  feluccas  were  all  at  sea. 

"And  what,"  remarked  Sebastian,  "would  you  say 
our  two  Camorristi  were  doing  now?" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  315 

"  Maybe  sitting  in  the  Grand  Cafe  of  the  Sea,  over 
a  cool  glass  of  wine — may  they  die  in  a  pest-house !" 

"But  when,  in  your  opinion,  will  they  make  their 
little  attempt?" 

"  Who  knows  that?  They  take  their  ease.  There's 
no  hurry.  Why  should  they  get  themselves  in  a 
perspiration,  when  we're  here  all  the  time?" 

"I'd  like  to  be  done  with  those  two,  at  least.  Inac- 
tion has  never  appealed  to  me  much." 

"Truly,  Signuri?  But  it's  not  so  bad,  sitting  here 
and  watching.  The  future's  full  of  time.  It  will 
happen  when  God  is  quite  ready.  One  can't  very 
well  hurry  God.  Unless,  perhaps,  one  chanced  to 
be  a  saint  up  in  Paradise?" 

Sebastian  got  up. 

"For  my  part,  Annibale,  I'm  going  down." 

"To  the  village,  Signuri?" 

"  To  the  village.  Perhaps  I  might  even  manage  to 
bait  them  on?" 

"It  will  soon  be  dark,"  Annibale  protested,  knit- 
ting his  handsome  brows. 

"All  the  better.  The  darkness  may  give  them 
more  stomach." 

"To  follow  you?" 

"Precisely.  They'd  be  afraid  to  use  fire-arms  here. 
I  can  walk  home  all  the  way  with  my  back  turned. 
If  I  managed  to  lead  them  past,  I  suppose  you  could 
hit  the  broadest  one?" 

Annibale's  classic  features  were  disfigured  by  an 
unpleasant  smile. 

"  To-day  this  old  machine  is  loaded  with  iron  filings 


316  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

and  tacks.  .  .  .  But  joking  aside,  Signuri,"  he  added 
earnestly,  "knives  are  far  better.  A  knife-hilt  al- 
ways snuggles  into  the  hand  so  sympathetically!" 

Sebastian  shook  his  head. 

"These  Camorristi  are  like  eels  at  close  quarters. 
To  play  the  game  safe,  we  ought  to  blow  them  into 
the  air  from  a  distance,  and  leave  their  stilettos  be- 
side them,  for  the  carabineers  to  see  it  was  self- 
defence." 

Annibale  reflected,  at  last  grinned  broadly,  and 
rubbed  his  large  palms  together. 

"After  all,  we  may  amuse  ourselves  yet  at  this 
business,  Signuri !  A  candle  to  the  Madonna,  out  of 
my  wages,  if  we  bag  them  both  together!" 

"By  all  means!  We'll  be  extravagant,  and  make 
it  a  pair." 

Sebastian  unfastened  the  rifle-stock  from  the 
Mauser  automatic,  slipped  the  latter  into  his  pocket, 
and  went  down  the  hill. 

When  he  came  to  the  village,  the  sun  was  low,  and 
veiled  in  filmy  clouds.  The  sea  was  a  blinding  sheet 
of  silver,  through  which,  half  absorbed,  as  it  were,  by 
the  enveloping  dazzle,  a  dozen  fishing-boats  stole  in 
toward  land.  Before  the  beach,  knee-deep  in  the 
still  water,  some  boys  stood  watching  the  little  fleet 
of  peaked  sails.  Against  the  luminous  expanse,  their 
half-naked,  brown  bodies  seemed  intensely  atten- 
uated, drooping  to  poses  in  which  appeared  the  vigor, 
softened  by  grace,  that  resides  in  ancient  statues. 

Sebastian  traversed  the  esplanade.  In  the  door- 
ways, seated  beside  the  family  crates  of  chickens, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  317 

slatternly  women  were  spinning  flax,  while  their  chil- 
dren, squatting  in  the  dust,  fanned  the  flames,  in  the 
charcoal-boxes  set  out  on  the  highway,  by  which  the 
evening  meal  was  to  be  cooked.  From  door  to  door, 
and  from  loggia  to  loggia,  the  women  gossiped,  with 
a  racket  of  voices  shrill  and  harsh.  But  at  Sebas- 
tian's approach,  they  called  in  their  young  ones,  fell 
silent,  and  averted  their  heads.  When  he  had 
passed,  they  glared  after  him,  with  eyes  full  of  hos- 
tility and  fear.  There  took  place  among  them  a 
silent,  but  violent,  pantomime  of  distrust.  Many 
made  gestures  to  avert  misfortune.  The  babies, 
peering  round  their  mother's  skirts,  imitated  these 
motions  with  their  tiny  fingers. 

Before  the  Grand  Cafe  of  the  Sea,  some  benches 
and  tables  stood  ready  for  the  evening  trade.  There, 
with  their  backs  against  the  wall,  the  two  mounte- 
banks were  dozing. 

To-day  they  had  put  away  their  eccentric  cos- 
tumes. They  wore  coats  and  trousers  patched  all 
over,  and  wretched  wooden-soled  shoes.  The  smaller 
one,  who  on  steam-ship  day  had  carried  the  guitar, 
sprawled  back  with  his  hat  pulled  over  his  face — but 
in  the  crown  of  the  hat  there  was  a  hole.  On  the 
other  hand,  his  companion,  the  ugly  wretch  with  the 
extraordinary  shoulders,  made  no  such  pretence.  He 
stared  at  Sebastian  openly.  But  in  his  black  eyes 
there  appeared  a  sort  of  sickly  dimness. 

This  fellow,  in  fact,  looked  ill.  His  dark,  square 
visage,  as  coarse-featured  as  if  chopped  out  of 
wood,  showed  a  vaguely  bluish  pallor.  He  seemed 


318  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

to  be  sinking  into  his  chair  beneath  a  supreme 
debility. 

Sebastian  sat  down  at  a  table  near  by.  To  serve 
him,  the  Syndic  himself  came  out  of  the  tunnel-like 
wine-shop. 

At  sight  of  his  customer,  the  cafe  keeper's  apoplec- 
tic countenance  brightened.  Probably  he  remem- 
bered that  this  stranger  had  complimented  him. 
And  compliments,  particularly  in  Torregiante,  may 
overbalance  a  good  deal  of  indefinite  suspicion. 

When  he  had  drunk  a  tumblerful  of  chianti,  Se- 
bastian ordered  wine  and  oil  for  the  villa.  He  in- 
quired how  long  it  would  take  to  procure  some  cases 
of  Asti  spumante,  and  some  of  the  best  vermouth. 
The  Syndic,  no  doubt,  received  the  impression  of  un- 
limited good  business  in  prospect.  His  eyes  began  to 
shine.  His  whole  face  ingenuously  expressed  the 
thought,  "After  all,  they  have  certainly  misjudged 
him,  those  others!"  When  Sebastian  produced  his 
pocket-book,  to  pay  in  advance,  the  cafe  keeper 
looked  as  if  he  saw  there  the  source  of  a  neat  little 
income  for  many  days. 

Sebastian  negligently  exhibited  a  fat  packet  of 
bank-notes.  While  counting  out  the  price,  he  be- 
came aware  of  a  gradual  tenseness  in  the  two  figures 
near  by.  Between  his  fingers  he  held  perhaps  more 
money  than  Torregiante  had  ever  seen  in  one  heap. 
It  was  certainly  far  more  than  enough  to  tempt  a 
couple  of  Camorristi  to  action? 

When  the  Syndic  had  received  his  pay,  he  cried,  in 
a  tone  exceptionally  full  and  strong,  on  account  of 
his  satisfaction: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  319 

"A  receipted  bill  in  one  moment,  Signuri!" 

"Nonsense.  Receipted  bills  between  men  of 
honor?" 

The  Syndic  drew  in  his  breath,  and  looked  at  the 
vagabonds  proudly.  Sebastian  added: 

"I'm  not  a  bad  judge  of  men,  you  know.  Nor,  I 
venture  to  say,  are  you." 

"Daweru!  I  know  a  man  when  I've  looked  at 
him  once  or  twice!" 

"Naturally.  Otherwise,  you'd  hardly  have  be- 
come a  leader  of  men.  But  not  many  have  the  gift." 

"Not  many,  indeed,  Signuri!"  the  Syndic  agreed, 
twirling  his  walrus-like  mustache. 

"For  instance,  in  Torregiante " 

"Mah!  In  Turrigianti!  What  should  they  know 
of  human  nature!" 

"All  the  same,  they  form  decided  opinions." 

"Goats,  Signuri!  One  leads — the  rest  follow. 
That's  it!" 

"  But  if  any  one  leads  in  such  things,  to  my  mind  it 
ought  to  be  you." 

The  Syndic,  as  this  idea  penetrated  his  brain, 
flushed  brick-red.  And  Sebastian  knew  that  he  had 
dropped  a  thought  which  might  result  in  some  slight 
abatement,  at  least,  of  Torregiante's  hostility.  At 
once,  he  stood  up,  and  shook  hands.  Then  he  turned 
to  the  mountebanks. 

"How  is  business?"  he  inquired,  genially. 

The  broad-shouldered  ruffian  answered,  in  a  dull 
voice,  with  apparent  effort: 

"Little  good,  Signuri!  We  made  a  mistake  to 
come  here.  Every  one  is  too  poor." 


320  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

His  bluish  face  was  covered  with  moisture.  His 
broad,  flat  lips  were  almost  violet-colored.  His  eye- 
lids, less,  as  it  seemed,  from  secretiveness  than  from 
lassitude,  slowly  covered  his  large,  dim  eyes. 

"This  one,"  thought  Sebastian,  "is  almost  hors  de 
combat,  for  some  reason.  However.  ..." 

He  took  out  his  pocket-book,  and  laid  a  five-lire 
note  on  the  table.  Later  on,  he  might  want  the 
Syndic  to  remember  that  he  had  exposed  his  money 
before  these  men. 

"To  change  your  luck,"  he  said,  and  turned  away. 

Old  Ilario,  just  landed  from  his  felucca,  was  try- 
ing to  hurry  past  unseen.  But  Sebastian,  with  a 
friendly  smile,  intercepted  the  fisherman. 

"Good-evening,  Ilario.  I  suppose  you  know,  by 
this  time,  that  you're  a  grandpapa?" 

The  old  man's  rugged  face,  the  color  of  mahogany, 
framed  in  white  bristles,  flinched  for  an  instant,  then 
hardened  again.  He  raised  his  chin.  His  eyes,  his 
broken  fangs,  his  silver  ear-rings,  glinted.  With  a 
ferocious  sneer,  he  rasped  out: 

"A  man  can't  be  a  grandfather  who  has  no 
daughter!" 

Sebastian  went  on,  imperturbably: 

"  I  should  like  to  see  a  healthier  proof  that  you  are. 
Already  he  has  lungs  like  a  leather  bag-pipe,  that 
little  brat!  And  a  strength  to  tear  his  mother's 
clothing  half  off  her  back.  And  eyes  that  can  look 
at  the  sun  without  winking.  In  addition  to  which,  he 
is  probably  the  most  depraved  little  devil,  for  his  age, 
that  I've  ever  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing,  for  tan- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  321 

trums,  and  squalling,  and  scratching,  and  God  knows 
what  misbehavior.  .  .  .  Come  up  some  day  and  have 
a  look  at  him." 

He  could  not  more  aptly  have  described  the  Sicilian 
ideal  for  an  infant — the  type  of  offspring  that  gives 
parents  and  relatives  the  best  cause  for  pride.  A 
faint  tremor  crossed  the  ancient's  puckered  mouth. 
Suddenly,  with  a  murderous  glare,  he  barked: 

"Let  the  two  of  them  bring  him  down  to  see  me — 
and  I'll  promise  to  make  him  an  orphan!" 

He  stamped  away,  shaking  curses  out  of  his 
throat.  The  Syndic  remarked: 

"Eh,  eh,  we  nurse  our  anger,  you  see,  in  Turri- 
gianti!" 

Said  Sebastian: 

"He  is  only  angry  with  himself.  And  that's  often 
the  cause  of  the  harshest  words  of  all.  .  .  ." 

After  a  moment,  he  went  away,  without  looking 
behind  him. 

In  order  to  give  the  Camorristi  time  for  thought 
and  decision,  he  penetrated  a  pestilential  alleyway, 
gamed  the  rear  of  the  village,  and  strolled,  through 
the  vegetable  terraces,  up  the  hillside.  But  from 
above  the  groves  called  to  him.  He  continued  to 
ascend.  Amid  the  trees,  he  remembered,  with  an 
unaccustomed  sensation  of  pleasure,  Little  Paganni. 

As  he  approached  the  rocky  clearing,  he  missed  the 
sound  of  the  flute.  However,  a  goat-bell  jingled. 
He  parted  the  bushes  quietly. 

The  goats  were  all  afoot,  peering  at  him  with  low- 
ered beards,  their  hind  legs  spread  out,  their  udders 
distended  with  milk.  Near  by,  on  the  grass,  two 


322  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

children  lay  asleep,  arms  round  each  other,  faces 
upturned  to  the  softening  light.  They  were  Little 
Paganni  and  his  four-year-old  sister  Giacinta. 

Sebastian  drew  near  on  noiseless  feet. 

The  two  small  faces,  dewy  from  slumber,  were 
startling  in  their  beauty.  The  tiny  girl's  flushed 
cheeks  were  framed  by  a  mass  of  auburn  curls.  Her 
mouth,  half  open,  was  like  a  bud.  Her  sole  garment, 
twisted  up,  revealed  the  sturdy,  dimpled  legs  of  a  per- 
fect physical  specimen.  The  little,  separate  toes,  the 
fat  fingers  hah  uncurled  from  their  embrace  of  the 
brother's  neck,  were  as  if  made  for  kisses.  Deep 
in  his  heart  Sebastian  felt  a  shock  of  something 
new.  ...  He  imagined  it  to  be  his  aesthetic  sense, 
recognizing  fully,  for  the  first  time,  the  immature 
human  animal  in  its  perfection. 

All  at  once,  with  a  single  movement,  Little  Pa- 
ganni sat  upright.  His  eyes  fell  on  Sebastian.  And, 
involuntarily  perhaps,  he  threw  one  puny  arm  across 
his  sister's  body. 

The  baby,  still  half  asleep,  glimpsing  the  towering 
figure  and  the  strange  face,  uttered  a  cry.  Sebastian 
stepped  back. 

"I'm  sorry  I  frightened  you,  Pan." 

The  goatherd  stiffened  his  lips. 

"I  am  not  frightened,  Signuri,"  he  answered,  sul- 
lenly. 

"Then  tell  Giacinta  that  I'm  not  going  to  eat  her." 

Little  Paganni  addressed  his  sister. 

"Why  did  I  buy  you  an  amulet?  Have  you  no 
faith  at  all,  love  of  God?" 

Giacinta  took  a  wild  look  at  Sebastian  from  be- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  323 

tween  her  fingers,  then  hid  her  face  in  Little  Pa- 
ganni's  lap.  Her  infantile  wails  resounded: 

"Mi  scantu!    Mi  scantu!      E  cattivu!  .  .  ." 

"She's  afraid  of  you,"  announced  Little  Paganni, 
tensely  resentful. 

"So  I'm  sorry  to  see." 

"She  says  you're  bad." 

"So  I  hear." 

"Well,  what  do  you  expect?  These  small  children 
are  all  like  that.  They  can't  keep  the  truth  to  them- 
selves." 

He  patted  Giacinta's  head  soothingly.  She  blot- 
ted her  face  against  him  harder  than  ever.  One  still 
heard  the  muffled  sobs: 

"E  cattivu.  .  .  .  E  cattivu.  .  .  ." 

At  last,  Sebastian  said: 

"So.    They  can't  hide  the  truth?" 

"Eh!" 

"Then,  you  also  think  I'm  bad,  I  suppose?" 

The  seven-year-old  averted  his  eyes.  His  delicate 
skin  flushed  scarlet.  Finally,  with  a  shrug,  he  re- 
sponded, in  angry  accents: 

"Everybody  knows  that." 

"Ah!  ...  Yet  you  talk  to  me,  Little  Paganni." 

"  Because  you  come  here.  Because  I'd  be  ashamed 
to  run  away." 

There  was  a  silence.  Sebastian  remonstrated, 
gently: 

"Still,  the  last  time  I  appeared,  you  were  rather 
more  hospitable  than  to-day." 

"You  hadn't  frightened  my  women-folks.    Be- 


324  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

sides,  what's  said  now  in  the  village  hadn't  been  said, 
at  that  time." 

"And  what's  said  now  in  the  village?" 

"That  something  terrible  must  happen  to  Turri- 
gianti,  because  you've  come  here.  .  One's  gone  al- 
ready! Nino!  .  .  ." 

On  remembering  that,  the  boy  turned  ashen.  But 
at  last,  clenching  his  hands,  he  got  out  the  words : 

"Is  it  true  .  .  .  that  you  took  him  ...  to  make 
ink  for  the  Devil  out  of  his  blood?" 

Sebastian  laughed.  But,  at  that  sound,  Little  Pa- 
ganni  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  stood  astride  of  his 
sister,  his  face  distorted  by  terror  and  hatred,  his 
small  body  aquiver  with  defiance.  Stretching  out  his 
hands  with  the  fingers  curved  like  claws,  he  shouted: 

"Go  away!  If  you  don't — I  have  a  knife  in  my 
pocket!  I'll  kill  you  with  it!" 

The  man  felt  a  shiver  down  his  back.  All  the 
warmth  seemed  to  leave  his  heart. 

"Good-by,  Pan,"  he  said.  "I  promise  I  won't 
come  back." 

He  departed. 

Where  the  groves  gave  place,  at  length,  to  the 
maize-patches  of  the  lower  slope,  Sebastian  halted 
in  the  shelter  of  a  great  mass  of  prickly-pears,  and 
looked  down,  with  unseeing  eyes,  upon  the  village. 

The  feluccas  were  all  beached.  Beyond  the  dilap- 
idated roofs,  many  stout  yellow  masts  stuck  up 
against  the  water,  which  was  suffused  with  golden 
light.  The  sun  had  already  set :  but  an  intense  after- 
glow remained  to  fill  half  the  sky  with  raw  chrome- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  325 

yellow.  To  the  west,  the  heavens  contained  some  at- 
tenuated and  ragged  clouds,  like  vast,  random  smears 
of  chocolate-colored  paint.  These  gradually  faded. 
Their  barbaric  hue,  abnormal,  cruel,  was  absorbed 
by  the  softness  of  the  twilight. 

And  the  melancholy  of  that  hour  found  its  comple- 
ment in  the  immense,  unprecedented  melancholy  of 
his  thoughts.  .  .  . 

He  tasted  now  the  full  measure  of  his  solitude,  his 
isolation  from  mankind.  His  nature  and  his  life  had 
raised  round  him  a  barrier  from  which,  at  last,  affec- 
tion of  .every  sort  instinctively  recoiled.  He  had 
long  mocked  tenderness,  and  made  ruthlessness  his 
ideal.  In  his  commerce  with  humanity,  he  had  paid 
out  only  hardness.  And  finally  humanity  was  re- 
turning him  his  own  coin,  with  interest. 

But  for  him,  the  retaliation  of  the  world  had  not 
reached  its  climax  in  the  recriminations  of  conven- 
tional beings,  or  even  in  the  enmity  of  the  woman  he 
professed  to  love,  but,  rather,  in  the  aversion  of  a 
half-savage  child,  whose  courage  and  beauty  had 
brought  to  him  the  first  thrill  of  a  paternal  long- 
ing. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  there  stole  through 
his  mind  a  dim  realization  of  unworthiness,  of  a  sort 
of  shameful  inadequacy,  of  his  deliberate  discord 
with  the  universe.  At  that  moment,  when  the  boy 
had  faced  him,  all  atremble  with  contending  fright 
and  valiancy,  had  he  not  seen,  in  one  flash,  the  secret 
of  the  world's  antagonism — not  the  antagonism  of 
blindness,  or  of  hypocrisy,  but  of  all  that  was  in- 


326  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

stinctively  true  in  human  nature,  for  all  that  was 
perverse  in  him?  .  .  . 

Staring  down,  he  remained  there,  hidden  by  the 
rough  foliage,  while  the  west  was  extinguished  with 
Sicilian  swiftness,  and  dark  descended  from  the 
zenith  like  a  curtain.  The  village  faded  into  the 
night,  till  only  the  scattered  window-lights  remained, 
to  mark  where  it  had  been.  With  a  start,  he  woke 
from  his  revery,  to  find  that  the  boundaries  of  his 
vision  had  crept  inward  perilously  close. 

He  had  forgotten  the  Camorristi!  It  was  too  late, 
now,  to  play  his  game  with  them  in  safety.  Unless 
he  wanted  to  risk  a  stab  at  every  hedge  he  would 
have  to  regain  the  villa  by  some  trick. 

No  doubt  they  would  wait  for  him  on  the  hillside, 
below  Annibale's  ambush?  In  that  case,  the  safe 
path  would  be  the  one  along  the  northern  precipice. 

He  climbed  to  the  northern  ridge,  found  the  path, 
and  set  out  on  his  dangerous  journey.  The  way  was 
soon  little  more  than  a  foot  in  width.  On  his  left, 
the  perpendicular  wall  of  rock.  On  his  right,  black 
space,  and  far  below,  the  whisper  of  the  sea.  A  mis- 
step might  have  sent  him  headlong  into  the  depths — 
and  nothing  would  have  been  easier  than  to  stumble 
in  this  void.  .  .  .  He  regretted  not  having  taken  off 
his  heavy  boots.  When  he  came  to  the  platform,  he 
would  do  so.  ... 

Sooner  than  he  expected,  his  left  hand  lost  touch 
with  the  wall.  He  had  reached  the  platform. 

From  cliff  to  edge,  the  platform  was  perhaps  a 
dozen  feet  in  width:  but  even  those  narrow  limits 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  327 

were  invisible.  He  stood  still,  to  regain  his  bear- 
ings. 

And  slowly,  though  he  heard  and  saw  nothing,  he 
became  aware  that  he  was  not  alone. 

Two  presences.     One  behind,  one  in  front. 

The  Camorristi! 

His  hand  stole  to  his  pocket.  He  jerked  at  his 
automatic  pistol.  It  was  caught  in  the  lining  of  his 
coat ! 

Then,  while  he  was  tugging  at  the  weapon,  came 
the  attack. 

From  the  encircling  gloom,  two  blacker  shadows, 
hurtling  through  the  air  like  leaping  beasts  of  prey. 
Two  long,  thin  flashes — brandished  steel  that  barely 
caught  the  starlight.  Two  gasps  of  effort,  as  the 
stilettos  were  driven  at  their  mark. 

His  brain  woke  to  an  action  miraculously  swift. 
As  if  at  a  clarion-call,  all  his  strength  and  cunning 
surged  to  his  defence.  He  realized  that  he  could  not 
get  the  pistol  out  in  time.  But  those  flying  figures 
were  still  in  mid-air  when  he  had  judged  then*  dis- 
tance, weighed  his  chances,  acted. 

His  foot  shot  forth,  and  caught  the  nearest  in  the 
stomach.  With  a  twist,  he  took  the  dagger  of  the 
second  deep  in  his  shoulder-muscles.  This  assassin 
instantly  plucked  out  the  steel,  to  stab  again.  But 
Sebastian's  right  hand  closed  round  his  wrist.  His 
left  went  under  the  other's  arm,  and  clutched  the 
coat.  On  that  leverage,  with  a  sudden  jolt  he  broke 
the  arm  at  the  elbow.  The  man  uttered  a  sharp  cry, 
dropped  his  stiletto,  and  staggered  back.  And,  as 


328  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

he  tottered  on  the  brink,  Sebastian's  fist  landed  with 
a  crack  against  his  chin.  The  Camorrista  vanished 
into  the  abyss. 

When  he  had  mastered  his  faintness,  Sebastian 
struck  a  match.  In  the  middle  of  the  platform,  the 
broad-shouldered  Camorrista  lay  on  his  back.  His 
bluish  face  was  contorted.  His  mouth  and  eyes  were 
open.  He  did  not  move. 

Sebastian  dropped  the  match.  His  strength  was 
ebbing  rapidly.  But  before  losing  consciousness,  he 
would  have  to  traverse  the  remainder  of  the  path, 
regain  the  villa.  .  .  . 

He  resumed  his  way,  giddy,  clinging  to  the  rock, 
swaying  toward  the  edge,  at  tunes  dropping  to  his 
knees,  but  always  struggling  on,  like  an  automa- 
ton. .  .  . 

In  the  villa,  Ghirlaine  was  undressing,  when  she 
heard  a  shout  of  challenge,  a  crash  of  furniture,  a 
babble  of  voices,  Fannia's  scream.  Doors  slammed. 
An  unnatural  laugh  resounded.  But  Fannia's  lamen- 
tations filled  the  house.  Even  the  baby  was  crying. 

What  had  happened? 

With  a  shawl  round  her,  she  ran  into  the  corridor. 
Sebastian's  door  stood  open.  In  the  light  of  candles, 
she  saw  a  basin  on  a  table,  full  of  reddened  water. 
Annibale  was  tearing  up  a  sheet.  In  a  chair,  a  big 
pallid  torso,  half  recumbent,  smeared  with  blood. 
Against  one  herculean  shoulder,  Fannia's  hands 
pressed  tight,  and  bright  blood  trickling  out  between 
her  fingers,  over  her  wrists. 

Sebastian  raised  his  head.    His  gaze  met  Ghir- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  329 

laine's.  His  eyes  lost  their  blankness — in  them 
flared  up,  for  a  moment,  a  fierce  light,  of  bitterness 
and  mockery. 

"Not  yet!  Go  back  to  bed.  This  sort  of  thing's 
a  little  too  strong  for  you." 

She  found  herself  in  her  room  again. 

But  throughout  the  night  there  remained  before 
her  the  picture  of  Fannia's  strong  fingers  pressing 
back  that  red  tide. 


CHAPTER  XVIH 

NEXT  morning,  the  carabineers  were  notified  of  the 
attack.  On  the  platform,  they  found  one  Camorrista, 
still  breathing.  In  the  water,  three  hundred  feet 
below,  the  other  was  bumping  gently  against  the 
rocks.  A  rowing-boat  put  round  the  island  and  re- 
covered this  body.  The  injured  assassin  was  carried 
down  to  the  village. 

The  day  following,  the  Maresciallo  requested  Se- 
bastian to  present  himself  for  the  identification.  It 
appeared  that  the  broad-shouldered  ruffian  had  not 
long  to  live. 

Pale,  still  somewhat  light-headed,  his  left  arm 
bound  to  his  side,  Sebastian  arrived  at  the  police  sta- 
tion toward  noon.  This  effort  had  caused  him  more 
fatigue  and  pain  than  an  observer  would  have  sus- 
pected. A  fierce  stoicism,  a  determination  to  afford 
no  one  the  pleasure  of  his  suffering,  accomplished  a 
sort  of  miracle  in  bringing  him,  with  all  his  old  ap- 
pearance of  ponderous  formidability,  to  run  this 
gauntlet. 

It  was  a  day  of  scorching  heat,  for  summer  had  at 
last  descended  in  full  force  upon  Torregiante.  The 
sky  resembled  a  vast  brazier.  The  heights  were 
veiled  in  yellowish  mist.  Beneath  the  sun's  rays, 
the  esplanade  seemed  dissolving  in  a  myriad  vibra- 
tions. But  from  the  black  doorways  of  the  houses 

330 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  331 

issued  a  breath  as  cold  and  damp  as  if  from  sub- 
terranean caves.  There,  in  the  shadows,  faces  gath- 
ered, stolidly  morose,  almost  brutish  in  their  stupid 
animosity,  but  stamped,  one  and  all,  with  a  certain 
look  of  disappointment.  The  sympathies  of  Torre- 
giante  were  evidently  with  the  losers. 

The  Marshal  of  carabineers,  however,  greeted  Se- 
bastian with  something  like  his  first  friendliness. 
The  Syndic  had  testified  to  the  display  of  money 
before  the  mountebanks — it  was  clearly  a  case  of 
attempted  murder  and  robbery.  And  the  fact  that 
Sebastian  had  worsted  two  armed  desperadoes  with 
his  bare  hands  could  not  but  resuscitate  the  soldier's 
admiration.  At  one  moment,  the  honest  fellow 
seemed  on  the  point  of  some  confession,  an  explana- 
tion, possibly,  of  his  late  coolness?  But  abruptly  he 
led  the  way  into  the  police  station. 

The  jail  was  a  dim,  whitewashed  room,  with  small 
barred  windows  close  to  the  vaulted  ceiling.  In  one 
corner,  on  a  cot,  lay  the  injured  Camorrista.  Beside 
him  sat  the  priest. 

Don  Vigilio  rose,  came  forward,  and  took  Sebas- 
tian's hand.  His  old  eyes  were  full  of  pain;  his  per- 
petual thin  smile  was  tremulous. 

"Ah,  my  son!  This  poor  victim  of  temptation! 
And  the  other,  already  gone!  What  a  calamity  for 
you,  to  have  to  be  the  instrument  of  justice!" 

"Quite  so,"  Sebastian  murmured.  "But  one  has 
very  little  choice,  when  a  pair  of  stilettos  are  against 
one's  ribs.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation,  you 
know — it's  apt  to  cause  rather  violent  gestures." 


332  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

The  priest  shook  his  head. 

"The  instinct  of  self-preservation  alone  would 
never  have  helped  you.  It  was  God,  who  stood  be- 
side you  in  that  peril,  as  in  the  one  before  it — who 
turned  away  the  knives,  just  as  He  bore  you  up 
above  the  sea.  These  two  poor  creatures  had  finished 
the  tasks  He  set  for  them,  here  below.  For  you, 
there  are  doubtless  still  many  things  to  do." 

The  Marshal  touched  Sebastian  on  the  arm.  They 
approached  the  pallet. 

The  Camorrista  's  rough-hewn  visage  was  more  hag- 
gard than  ever,  strangely  purplish,  glistening  with 
moisture.  His  dull  eyes  finally  opened,  and  fixed 
themselves  on  Sebastian.  Then,  at  recognition  of 
his  enemy,  he  acquired  slowly  a  look  of  almost  un- 
earthly hatred.  A  hoarse,  rattling  whisper  broke 
from  his  lips: 

"Wait.  .  .  .  Among  us,  it  is  never  finished.  .  .  ." 

And,  raising  one  hand  with  difficulty  from  the 
blanket,  he  tried  to  make  the  sign  of  menace.  But 
he  fell  back  in  a  convulsion. 

Said  the  carabineer: 

"You  identify  this  man  as  your  assailant,  Excel- 
lency?" 

Sebastian  roused  himself  from  contemplation  of 
that  countenance. 

"Certainly.  But  as  for  what  I  did  to  him  .  .  . 
Curious!  ...  If  there  were  only  a  physician!" 

"Physician!  Eh,  I  doubt  if  there's  ever  been  one 
in  Torregiante!" 

Bending  down,  Sebastian  examined  the  Camor- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  333 

rista's  eyes  and  lips,  pulled  aside  the  coverlid  from 
his  chest,  felt  his  pulse.    Then,  straightening  himself 
sharply,  he  brushed  off  his  hands,  with  the  involun- 
tary gesture  of  a  man  who  has  touched  something 
he  would  rather  have  avoided.     To  the  Marshal: 
"What  symptoms,  since  you  brought  him  here?" 
The  carabineer  recounted  them,  adding: 

"A  kick  in  the  stomach,  you  see ' 

"A  kick  in  the  stomach?  Nonsense.  ...  Is 
there  cholera  at  Naples  now?" 

"Cholera?    Why,  perhaps,  a  few  cases.  .  .  ." 
Soldier  and  priest  stared  at  Sebastian  aghast. 
The  latter  announced: 

"In  my  opinion,  this  man  is  dying  of  cholera." 
There  was  a  long  silence.     From  the  damp  walls 
of  that  cell,  something  immeasurable,  crushing,  cold 
as   death,    seemed   to   descend   upon   them.     Yet, 
through  the  high,  barred  windows,  the  hot  breeze 
bore  in  the  customary  nauseous  odors  of  the  village, 
and  the  sounds  of  every  day — the  grunting  of  the 
lean  black  pigs,  and  many  children's  voices.  .  .  . 
The  Marshal  found  his  tongue. 
"Cholera!    But  I  have  seen  plenty  of  that!" 
"So  have  I.    And  learned  that  there's  more  than 
one  kind.    This  case,  I  should  judge,  began  abor- 
tively.    If  that  is  so,  his  injury  has  developed  it.   At 
present  he  has  the  physiognomy  of  a  true  coleroso. 
Use  your  eyes." 

"Cholera!"  ejaculated  the  carabineer,  passing  his 
hand  across  his  brow.  "But  it  is  impossible!  Eh, 
Padre?" 


334  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Surely,  surely!  God  would  not  permit  it,  in  my 
Torregiante!  These  poor,  humble  creatures!  All 
these  little  ones,  so  helpless!" 

Sebastian  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  may  be  wrong.  I  advise  you,  all  the  same,  to 
isolate  this  fellow,  and  burn  his  clothes.  A  few 
days  will  show.  If  it's  cholera,  you'll  find  out  soon 
enough!  This  population  will  be  practically  wiped 
out.  You  know  how  they  live.  They'll  merely  die 
like  flies.  .  .  .  Well,  Maresciallo?  If  you've  quite 
finished  with  me?" 

The  soldier  pulled  himself  together. 

"Pass,  Excellency,"  he  muttered. 

The  trio  went  out  on  the  esplanade. 

"At  any  rate,"  stammered  the  priest,  "this  one 
will  soon  pass  on.  I  go  now  to  prepare  his  Viati- 
cum." 

And  turning  to  Sebastian,  he  inquired: 

"Are  you  too  tired  to  walk  with  me  to  the  church?  " 

"I?    Not  at  all!" 

They  set  out  along  the  water-front,  toward  the 
eastern  promontory. 

The  church,  surmounted  by  its  rough  bell-tower, 
stood  forth,  with  the  little  parish-house,  on  the  out- 
reaching  spine  of  rock,  against  the  glittering  sea. 
Small,  rude  of  contour,  with  all  its  details  bespeak- 
ing slipshod  labor  and  economy  of  funds,  it  seemed 
nevertheless,  hi  comparison  with  Torregiante's  other 
edifices,  almost  imposing.  Its  arched  doorway  made 
a  spot  of  intense  black  against  the  blazing  walls.  On 
the  threshold  appeared  a  little  ragged  boy.  It  was 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  335 

the  youngster  that  had  first  guided  Sebastian  toward 
the  villa. 

"My  acolyte,"  the  priest  remarked,  absent- 
mindedly.  "An  orphan.  Maria  takes  care  of  him, 
with  alternating  cuffs  and  kisses,  after  the  manner 
of  all  natural  tyrants.  .  .  .  And  there  she  is  in 
person." 

At  a  window  of  the  parish-house  loomed  the  fat 
old  housekeeper,  with  her  triple  chin,  her  sprouting 
moles,  and  toothless  gums.  She  gazed  down  at 
Sebastian  stonily.  Her  deep  voice  bellowed  forth: 

"If  it's  a  visitor  you're  bringing  to  table,  there's 
not  enough  to  go  round!" 

Whereupon,  she  pulled  in  the  shutters  with  a 
bang. 

Don  Vigilio  flushed. 

"Ah,  these  islanders  of  mine!  Who  ever  knows 
how  to  take  them!  Sometimes  as  courteous  as 
princes.  Another  day,  they  shame  themselves  by 
their  brutality." 

"They  dislike  me,"  Sebastian  answered,  with  a 
short  laugh.  "And,  in  this  instance,  they  don't 
trouble  to  conceal  their  feelings.  Do  you  know,  if 
it  had  been  I,  instead  of  those  other  two,  I'm  sure 
the  village  would  have  made  a/es/a." 

The  priest  protested,  almost  with  agitation: 

"  Never !  Never !  You  mustn't  think  such  things. 
You're  strange  to  them,  and  simple  natures  always 
mistrust  what's  strange.  When  I  first  came  here,  it 
was  practically  the  same.  Sometimes  I  said,  'Dear 
Lord,  shall  I  ever  really  reach  these  hearts,  at  once 


336  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

so  simple  and  so  complex?'  Then,  all  at  once,  as  if 
in  one  day,  everything  was  different.  Their  faces,  as 
it  were,  opened  to  me.  Their  smiles  greeted  me — 
the  indescribably  sweet  smiles  of  the  little  people.  I 
felt  a  warm  current  of  love  miraculously  flowing  back 
and  forth,  between  their  souls  and  mine.  How  good 
it  was !  My  long  efforts  crowned  with  happiness !  To 
feel  the  love  of  others — in  that  sensation  there's  al- 
most something  like  experiencing  the  love  of  God. 
And  why  not,  since  we're  all  parts  of  God?  But  to 
receive,  one  must  have  given.  That's  it!  Whatever 
one  gives,  of  good  or  evil,  will  be  returned  eventually, 
a  hundred-fold  augmented  by  that  commerce.  ..." 

They  were  before  the  arched  doorway. 

"Enter,  my  son,"  said  the  old  man,  and  with  his 
frail  hand  gently  urged  Sebastian  into  the  church. 

A  black  expanse  of  pavement  was  divided  into 
three  parts  by  a  double  row  of  stucco  pillars,  slate- 
gray  in  the  obscurity.  The  plaster  walls  were 
shrouded  in  deep  shadows:  the  little  chapels  ranged 
against  them,  two  on  each  side,  were  almost  invisi- 
ble. But  above,  the  long,  narrow  windows  let  in 
diagonal  rays  of  sunshine,  which  lost  themselves  in 
mid-air  against  the  garish  motley  of  a  stained-glass 
bay,  behind  the  chancel.  There  a  tawdry  altar,  set 
with  some  tallow  candles  and  rosettes  of  paper 
flowers,  bore  up  a  wooden  crucifix,  vividly  painted, 
the  Christ  extraordinarily  bestrewn  with  blood. 

Cool,  silent,  impregnated  with  scents  of  dust,  burnt 
wax,  and  incense,  even  this  place  gave  forth  that 
suggestion  of  solemnity  and  mystery,  of  age  and  un- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  337 

alterable  majesty,  which  in  such  old  countries  in- 
forms the  humblest  of  its  kind.  Within  these  por- 
tals, something  of  the  faith  and  awe  of  a  myriad 
departed  worshippers  seemed  redolently  embalmed. 

At  the  door,  the  old  priest  took  water  and  crossed 
himself.  When  Sebastian  failed  to  follow  his  ex- 
ample, Don  Vigilio's  face  fell.  But  he  beckoned  the 
stranger  toward  a  chapel. 

"The  likeness  of  Saint  Giosue  the  Admiral,  our 
patron,"  he  announced. 

Sebastian  saw  a  blackened,  primitive  painting  of  a 
person  in  religious  dress,  one  hand  raised  in  benedic- 
tion. The  panel  was  surrounded  by  an  amazing 
collection  of  tin  hearts,  cheap  jewelry,  and  votive 
pictures  in  which  were  portrayed  all  manner  of  dis- 
asters— shipwrecks,  avalanches,  drownings,  assas- 
sinations, death-bed  scenes — each  arrested,  just  be- 
fore the  fatal  moment,  by  the  appearance  of  the 
saint  in  whirling  clouds. 

"And  who,"  Sebastian  inquired,  "was  Saint 
Giosue?" 

"Ah,  as  for  that,  they  will  tell  you  hereabouts  that 
he  was  a  Norman,  a  converted  Arab,  a  Roman,  even 
a  Carthaginian  or  a  Greek.  For  while  they  know 
nothing  of  those  races  that  preceded  them,  and 
handed  down  their  various  traits  to  them,  they  love 
the  old  names.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Saint  Giosue 
was  a  soldier  of  fortune  from  abroad,  who  took  ser- 
vice with  Roger  the  Norman.  But  he  came  here, 
one  day,  for  a  certain  reason,  and  thereafter  gave 
up  deeds  of  blood  for  better  works." 


338  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"And  do  you  attribute  his  change  of  heart  to  the 
climate  of  Torregiante?  " 

"It  is  all  written  down,  my  son;  and  some  day 
you  shall  read  it,"  Don  Vigilio  responded,  quietly, 
and  led  the  way  toward  the  high-altar. 

Their  footfalls  re-echoed.  From  behind  a  pillar, 
the  acolyte  peered  out  at  them.  Halting  below  the 
chancel,  they  contemplated  the  Crucifix. 

"Well?"  asked  Don  Vigilio  at  last. 

"Very  good,  indeed,  I  should  judge,  for  this  lo- 
cality. For  you  and  me,  perhaps,  it  rather  turns  the 
place  into  a  shambles.  But  I  fancy  that  for  these 
people  no  less  blood  would  visualize  the  Passion 
properly." 

The  priest's  face  brightened. 

"You're  right.  In  Saint  Peter's,  it  would  be  too 
terrible.  But  here  it  is  necessary." 

And,  after  a  pause: 

"Catholicism  is  so  catholic,  so  various,  in  its  unity! 
For  the  sage,  these  things  are  awesome  symbols. 
For  the  illiterate,  they  must  be  almost  animate  reali- 
ties. Is  it  not  wonderful,  that  God  has  provided  this 
way  to  salvation,  which  may  move  through  the  self- 
same instruments  the  intellectual  as  poignantly  as 
the  ignorant?" 

Sebastian  glanced  curiously  at  the  old  man,  so 
different,  in  his  view-point,  from  the  average  parish- 
priest.  Perhaps,  thought  the  visitor,  such  opinions 
were  responsible  for  his  presence  in  Torregiante? 
About  to  ask  Don  Vigilio  where  his  first  church  had 
been,  he  heard: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  339 

"  I  was  in  hopes  that  there  would  be  something  for 
us  to  do  here  together,  to-day.  But  you  aren't  of  the 
Faith,  I  take  it?" 

"No,"  said  Sebastian,  with  the  shadow  of  a  smile. 
"I  walk  in  darkness.  .  .  ." 

The  words  had  no  sooner  left  his  lips,  than,  with  a 
slight  shock,  he  realized  their  truth.  He  walked  in- 
deed, and  had  always  walked,  in  darkness!  The  ex- 
periences of  those  others,  their  spiritual  expansion  in 
the  radiance  of  trust  and  faith,  had  never  come  to 
him,  who  had  been  so  gluttonous  of  sensation.  And 
it  was  with  a  kind  of  smothered  sullenness,  as  if  at 
comprehension  of  an  innate  inadequacy,  that  he 
added: 

"All  my  life  I've  tried  my  best  to  sample  every 
emotion.  But  there  are  a  few  beyond  me.  For  in- 
stance, belief  hi  the  intangible,  when  the  tangible  is 
so  full  of  disillusionments." 

"You  find  the  tangible  full  of  disillusionments!" 

The  priest  laid  his  hand  on  Sebastian's. 

"My  son,  forgive  me  beforehand,  and  let  me  tell 
you  this,  religion  aside.  The  world  is  a  mirror.  One 
sees  in  it  only  one's  reflection.  So,  one  must  cleanse 
the  heart,  and  then  the  reflection  will  be  bright.  .  .  . 
In  your  life,  I  presume,  you've  committed  certain 
crimes?" 

"Many,  I  fear,  Padre,  from  your  point  of  view." 

"And  now  you  have  the  deaths  of  two  men  on 
your  conscience." 

"Those  two?  They  rest  there  as  lightly  as  if 
they'd  been  a  couple  of  mad  dogs." 

"You  think  so  now.     You  think  so  now. 


340  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Shaking  his  head,  he  murmured: 

"A  terrible  thing,  to  go  before  God's  Judgment- 
seat  all  begrimed,  when  one  might  so  easily  go 
clean!" 

"But  even  after  contrition,  confession,  and  absolu- 
tion, how  should  one  be  really  sure  that  one's  suffi- 
ciently presentable?" 

"Because  our  blessed  Lord  Himself  has  said, 
1  Whose  sins  you  shall  forgive,  they  are  forgiven 
them.'" 

"Ah,  there  we're  getting  deeper  than  I'd  care  to  go 
with  you — particularly  here.  .  .  .  One  more  ques- 
tion, however.  In  your  opinion,  can  absolution  ever 
really  wipe  out  the  past?" 

Don  Vigilio  considered,  then  replied: 

"I  shall  not  answer  you  quite  as  I  would  one  of  my 
parishioners.  Perhaps  not  absolution  itself  wipes 
out  the  past,  so  much  as  the  act  of  repentance.  For 
when  a  sinner  truly  repents  his  past,  in  that  moment 
his  past  is  transformed.  From  all  his  offences  sud- 
denly the  offence  falls  off;  and  forthwith  they  are 
dignified,  ennobled,  into  the  instruments  of  his  sal- 
vation. What  folly  men  utter,  who  say  the  past  is 
unchangeable!  Nothing  is  so  easy  to  change.  All 
the  wrongs  you've  ever  done  take  on  the  grandeur  of 
such  tools  as  fashion  an  ineffable  masterpiece,  in  that 
moment  when  you  kneel  and  say,  from  the  heart, 
'Forgive  me  my  trespasses.  .  .  .'" 

In  the  end,  Sebastian  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  are  a  good  man,  Padre." 

"We  are  all  good  men,  my  son.  Though  some  of 
us  aren't  yet  aware  of  it.  .  .  ." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  341 

On  the  church  steps,  Don  Vigitio  looked  down 
toward  the  village.  The  words  escaped  him: 

"Cholera,  in  Torregiante?  No,  no!  I  can't  be- 
lieve that,  with  all  respect  to  your  diagnosis.  We're 
too  defenceless.  And  one  is  never  struck,  in  this 
world,  unless  some  means  of  defence  exists  in  him. 
Or,  if  it  is  cholera,  then  the  means  of  defence  un- 
doubtedly exists.  ...  Or  a  purpose  would  be  ac- 
complished, an  end  gained,  that  could  not  be  gained 
otherwise.  .  .  .  Who  knows?  Who  knows?" 

Sebastian  left  him  standing  there  in  the  fierce  sun- 
light, gazing  down,  wrapped  in  thought,  upon  his 
village. 

At  the  foot  of  the  promontory,  the  school-master 
glided  to  his  side. 

Shabby,  cadaverous,  his  sparse  mustaches  pro- 
truding, his  eyes  glistening  with  a  treacherous  eager- 
ness, he  looked  the  starved  rat  more  than  ever  to-day. 
Hat  in  hand,  he  sidled  along  beside  Sebastian,  ex- 
claiming extravagantly  over  the  bandages,  pouring 
out  condolences,  showering  admiration.  With  a 
staccato  laugh,  he  concluded: 

"But  at  least,  that  wasn't  why  you  went  to 
church!" 

"No?    And  why  not?" 

"Ah!  Ah!  Intellectuals  have  a  way  of  recogniz- 
ing one  another." 

"Really?" 

"Naturally.  The  intuition  of  kindred  spirits.  I 
was  drawn  toward  your  Excellency  at  once." 

"You  flatter  me." 


342  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"S  'immagini!  Immediately  I  said  to  myself, 
'Here  is  Somebody!  An  obvious  intelligence!  Per- 
haps one  of  Nietzsche's  hard  ones !  He  would  know 
instinctively,  for  instance,  that  the  soul  is  just  the 
emotions  plus  the  intellect.  That  the  theological 
and  metaphysical  stages  of  thought  are  both  obso- 
lete already.  That  science  is  the  religion  of  the  fut- 
ure. But  is  he  a  materialist,  an  agnostic,  or  an 
atheist?  What  does  he  think  of  the  atomic  theory 
of  Democritus?  What  of  Hobbes?  Not  much  of 
Spinoza,  at  least,  who  was  called  an  atheist,  though 
he  was,  after  all,  nothing  but  a  pantheist!  No  mat- 
ter! How  refreshing,  a  modern  mind,  here,  after 
such  a  surfeit  of  gross,  mediaeval  bigotry,  and  super- 
stition!'" 

This  display  accomplished,  his  pointed  visage  as- 
sumed a  look  of  puerile  satisfaction.  He  chattered  on : 

"Signore,  for  a  year  I  have  famished  in  this  hole! 
No  intercourse  for  a  thinker!  Say,  no  life  at  all! 
To  what  am  I  reduced?  The  cafe,  speaking  before 
you  with  all  respect,  is  a  pig-pen,  full  of  pigs — and  I 
teach  their  litters  trash.  But  the  church,  at  least, 
is  cool.  So  I  go  there  to  read  Voltaire.  Eh,  that 
amuses  me  somewhat — to  read  him  there.  As  you 
can  guess." 

"Have  you  read  much  of  Voltaire,  then?" 

"If  I  have  read  much  of  him!  But  then,  I  am  a 
voracious,  an  omnivorous,  reader " 

"Have  you,  by  any  chance,  reached  that  passage 
where  he  says,  'If  there  is  no  God,  one  must  be  in- 
vented?'" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  343 

The  school-master's  face  fell. 

"Voltaire  said  that?  Where?  Per  Bacco,  I  must 
see  that  for  myself!" 

"Don't  let  me  keep  you  from  looking  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  prefer  to  talk  with  you,  Signore!" 

"And  I,  just  at  present,  prefer  to  be  alone." 

The  man  stopped  short.  An  ugly  gleam  showed 
for  a  second  in  his  eyes.  But,  with  a  wriggle,  he 
stuttered: 

"There  I  recognize  the  Superman!  Directness, 
ruthlessness,  not  fettered  by  insincere  conventions! 
And  I  respect  it!  I  admire  it!  I  do  homage  to  it! 
Another  day,  then?  I  live  in  anticipation." 

He  made  a  low  bow,  displayed  a  crooked  smile, 
and  went  off  sideways. 

' '  Miserable  ass ! "  growled  Sebastian.  Then,  stand- 
ing still,  he  looked  round  him  in  whimsical  amaze- 
ment. 

"Why,  devil  take  him.  .  .  ." 

With  a  laugh  of  annoyance,  he  resumed  his  home- 
ward way. 

In  the  portico,  Ghirlaine  was  standing,  with  Fan- 
nia's  baby  hi  her  arms.  Sebastian  halted,  to  con- 
template that  picture. 

WTien  she  saw  him,  her  eyes  contracted.  She 
seemed  about  to  go  indoors.  But,  as  if  against  her 
will,  her  lips  parted : 

"How's  your  shoulder  to-day?" 

"Doing  famously." 

"And— the  others?" 

"They  won't  trouble  us." 


344  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Shivering,  she  pressed  the  baby  closer  to  her 
breast.  He  inquired: 

"You've  not  sighted  a  steam-boat?" 

"No." 

"Strange.  .  .  ." 

He  entered  the  portico,  sank  into  a  chair,  and  low- 
ered his  eyelids. 

"You're  suffering  now?"  she  asked,  reluctantly. 

He  smiled  grimly  to  himself. 

"Not  sufficiently  to  cause  you  any  particular 
pleasure." 

Her  face  paled.  At  last,  turning  quickly,  she 
carried  the  baby  into  the  house. 

The  afternoon  dragged  out  interminably.  Night 
fell,  hot,  breathless,  ominous.  Next  morning,  the 
acolyte  climbed  half-way  up  the  hill,  cast  a  letter  on 
the  ground,  and  fled. 

Don  Vigilio  wrote  that  the  Camorrista  was  dead. 
Already  the  Marshal  and  one  of  his  carabineers  were 
stricken  down.  It  was  cholera.  .  .  . 

Through  that  day,  he  sat  on  the  eastern  end  of  the 
portico,  looking  down  at  the  village  through  his 
binoculars.  He  was  waiting  for  the  storm  which,  at 
the  coming  of  such  an  epidemic,  develops,  among  the 
ruder  peasantry  of  Italy  and  Sicily,  from  blank  dis- 
may to  a  frenzy  of  destructive  terror. 

Once,  in  a  hill  town  of  Catania,  he  had  seen  a 
cholera  mob  roll  in  upon  the  doctors  and  the  cara- 
bineers, and  tear  them  limb  from  limb,  because  word 
had  gone  round  that  the  Government  was  poisoning 
the  land,  in  order  to  thin  out  a  wretched  population. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  345 

Now  he  saw  again  that  mass  of  ragged  furies,  from 
whom  nearly  all  semblance  of  humanity  had  been 
obliterated.  But  their  faces  were  the  faces  he  had 
seen  scowling  at  him  here,  in  Torregiante,  and  it  was 
toward  him  that  all  those  murderous  hands  reached 
out. 

For,  if  an  outbreak  came,  all  their  superstitious 
hatred  of  him,  all  their  past  mistrust  and  forebodings, 
would  bring  them  straightway,  with  the  courage  of 
panic-fear  and  numbers,  howling  for  vengeance,  to 
this  hilltop. 

And  Ghirlaine!  The  "wife  of  the  magician!" 
The  "siren,"  with  the  "tears  of  drowned  men  strung 
round  her  neck!"  Their  savage,  fumy  minds  would 
attribute  this  calamity  to  her  no  less  than  to  him. 
They  would  seek  her  out  with  the  same  fury.  For 
an  instant,  his  imagination  brought  forth  that  pict- 
ure. .  .  . 

Presently,  through  the  binoculars,  he  saw  a  group 
of  men  walk  out  from  the  cafe,  cluster  on  the  espla- 
nade, and  gaze  up  fixedly  toward  the  villa. 

She  was  behind  him,  on  the  terrace,  stooping  over 
the  roses,  her  figure,  in  white  linen,  of  an  exquisite 
modernity,  her  profile,  against  the  golden  sky,  of  a 
beauty  rarer  and  more  delicate  than  Torregiante  had 
ever  seen  before. 

Across  the  vivid  stretch  of  flowers,  she  stared  at 
him,  then  came  quickly  toward  him. 

"What  is  it?    The  ship?" 

"I  wish  it  were." 

When  he  had  told  her  everything,  he  handed  her 
the  binoculars. 


346  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"You  can  see  that  they're  beginning  already  to 
think  of  us." 

Her  arms  dropped  to  her  side.  An  expression  of 
horror  slowly  gathered  in  her  eyes.  She  managed  to 
utter: 

"You're  armed?" 

"What  are  a  few  bullets  to  a  couple  of  hundred 
maniacs?  For  that's  what  they'll  be,  when  they've 
worked  themselves  up  to  it.  ...  If  it  does  break 
loose,  you  and  Fannia  and  the  baby  must  get  off  to 
the  temple.  I  doubt  if  even  the  wildest  of  them 
would  follow  you  in  there.  Annibale  could  go  with 
you." 

"And  you?" 

"I!  Do  you  think  I'd  show  my  back  to  dogs  like 
these,  especially  nowadays?  " 

Her  chin  rose.  Her  face  was  dead-white.  But  her 
eyes  were  burning.  And  she  retorted,  in  a  whisper: 

"I  shall  stay  here." 

He  came  close  to  her,  black-browed,  quivering  with 
anger.  But  she  did  not  flinch.  She  achieved  the 
words: 

"Whatever  else  you  may  think,  you'll  find  I'm  not 
a  coward." 

"Are  you  mad!" 

"Perhaps,"  she  returned,  faintly.  And,  closing 
her  eyes,  she  went  swaying  toward  the  house. 

He  resumed  his  observation  of  the  village. 

From  the  esplanade  all  children  had  disappeared. 
The  loggias  were  empty.  But  round  the  Grand  Cafe 
of  the  Sea  stood  a  crowd  of  men.  In  the  midst  of 
them,  flashed  the  sword-hilts  of  the  two  remaining 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  347 

carabineers.  The  cocked  hats  moved  as  if  buffeted 
about.  The  islanders  were  beginning  to  lose  patience 
with  authority? 

Out  of  the  eastern  sea,  the  dusk  was  rising.  .  .  . 

Sebastian  called  Annibale,  and  put  the  case  to  him. 
The  young  man's  bronzed,  classic  visage  remained 
almost  impassive.  Shrugging  his  shoulders,  he  re- 
marked : 

"Signuri,  it  may  fall  out  as  you  think:  the  Ma- 
donna will  manage  that  to  suit  herself.  But  as  for 
Fannia  and  my  little  Ercole,  why  should  they  be 
afraid  of  their  own  people?  Or  why  should  I?  Still, 
if  those  fools  want  you.  .  .  .  Eccu:  I'll  take  the 
Signura  to  the  temple,  if  she'll  let  me,  and  then  come 
back.  I  eat  your  bread.  I  am  your  man." 

"The  man  of  a.  jettatura,  of  a  magician,  who  has 
brought  the  cholera  to  Torregiante?  " 

Annibale  smiled  strangely,  with  a  smile  as  if  of  one 
waking  from  a  long  sleep.  He  responded,  reflect- 
ively: 

"Eh!  More  things  have  come  to  me  up  here  than 
in  all  the  years  I  spent  down  there,  Signuri!  There 
is  wisdom,  it  seems,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Old 
Ones.  .  .  ." 

He  brought  the  rifle-stock,  so  that  Sebastian  could 
fasten  the  Mauser  automatic  to  it.  But  the  latter 
pointed  to  his  bandaged  arm.  In  silence,  turn 
about,  they  scrutinized  the  esplanade  through  the 
glasses,  till  night  rushed  in,  and  Torregiante  melted 
into  a  greenish  mist  beneath  the  stars. 

An  hour  passed.     Out  of  the  shadows: 


348  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Signuri,  will  you  eat?" 

"No." 

"One  meets  things  better  on  a  full  stomach." 

"Then  go  and  fill  yours." 

Annibale's  rustling  footsteps  died  away. 

Half  an  hour  more.  .  .  . 

On  the  esplanade,  torches  were  beginning  to  twin- 
kle and  converge.  In  their  light,  he  caught,  through 
the  glasses,  fragmentary,  weird  glimpses  of  flitting 
figures,  gesticulating,  gathering,  scattering,  reassem- 
bling. 

Hark!  ...  A  faint  rumor,  like  the  murmur  of  a 
breeze  through  leaves.  But  the  night  was  breath- 
less. 

The  rumor  died  away.  Yet  it  soon  rose  again,  in- 
tensified, at  last  distinguishable  as  the  uproar  of 
many  voices.  A  baying  deep  and  savage,  like  the 
outcry  of  a  ravening  pack. 

What  was  that?    The  pop  of  a  revolver? 

Annibale  came  running.  Side  by  side,  they  lis- 
tened to  that  clamor,  which  rose  to  them,  out  of  the 
torch-sprinkled  darkness,  ever  louder. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN  the  villa,  at  the  window  of  her  bedchamber, 
Ghirlaine,  too,  was  listening. 

She  heard  the  distant  uproar.  She  saw,  far  be- 
low, on  the  beach,  as  if  in  an  immense  black  pit,  the 
little  flames  hurrying  together.  Undoubtedly,  those 
torches  had  been  kindled  to  light  the  way  from  the 
village  to  this  headland.  It  was  here,  as  he  had  pre- 
dicted, that  the  islanders  were  coming! 

From  the  doorway  behind  her  sounded  the  quick 
slapping  of  bare  feet  on  tiles.  Fannia  entered,  the 
baby  hugged  against  her  breast.  Side  by  side,  the 
two  looked  forth  at  the  tossing  sparks. 

Down  there,  among  the  torches,  was  taking  shape 
the  most  dreadful  phenomenon  that  humanity  can 
show — the  Mob,  a  monster  bereft  of  mind  and  heart. 
And  to  Ghirlaine  it  seemed  as  if,  from  that  abyss, 
were  rising  all  Sebastian  Maure's  own  ruthlessness 
and  lawlessness,  returned  to  rend  him,  a  hundred- 
fold augmented,  out  of  the  Invisible.  .  .  . 

"They're  coming,"  said  Fannia  suddenly. 

The  torches  were  pouring  down  the  esplanade,  to- 
ward the  ascent.  And,  through  the  still  night,  there 
floated  up  a  prolonged  and  formless  howl. 

She  saw  Sebastian  approaching,  tall,  bulky,  his 
bandaged  arm  dull-gray  in  the  shadows.  He  came 
to  the  window,  rested  his  hand  on  the  sill  beside  her 

349 


350  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

own,  and  for  a  moment  looked  in  at  her  in  silence. 
At  last: 

"You've  changed  your  mind?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  still  dream  of  staying  here!" 

She  nodded. 

"In  God's  name,  will  you  tell  me  why?" 

At  the  foot  of  the  slope,  the  lights  were  already  be- 
ginning to  slip  hi  among  the  trees.  Her  fingers  came 
together,  and  were  desperately  interlaced.  But  she 
only  shook  her  head  again. 

For  a  time  he  still  stood  there,  staring  at  her  white 
face.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  torches,  but  she  felt  his 
burning  scrutiny.  Yet  not  for  all  the  world  would 
she  have  answered  that  mute  question  with  the  truth 
— revealing  to  him  her  thought  that,  if  she  stood  her 
ground,  somehow  he  might  find  the  force  to  send  that 
onslaught  rolling  back  upon  its  tracks.  .  .  . 

She  saw  him  returning  slowly  to  Annibale. 

The  young  man  greeted  him  with  the  words: 

"They'll  be  here  in  five  minutes  now,  Signuri." 

"Give  them  ten,  the  speed  of  the  slowest.  Men 
stick  together  who  trespass  on  the  property  of  the 
Old  Ones." 

"The  ringleaders  will  probably  be  old  Ilario  and 
Big  Paganni.  We  must  get  them  first.  .  .  .  Would 
you  mind,  Signuri,  taking  old  Ilario  yourself?  After 
all,  he's  practically  my  father-in-law,  you  know." 

"And  do  you  imagine  that  would  stop  the  rest?" 

For  his  part,  Sebastian  knew  that  this  mob,  at 
least,  would  not  recoil  so  easily.  Its  units  were  men 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  351 

accustomed  all  their  lives  to  homicidal  impulses  and 
the  issue  of  the  knife.  Even  in  their  hours  of  petty 
gambling  and  of  love-making,  they  stood  ready  at 
any  instant  to  face  death.  Their  honor  consisted  in 
contempt  of  danger,  their  standard  of  manhood  in 
accepting  every  mortal  challenge.  In  their  natures 
were  combined  the  qualities  of  remote,  diverse  an- 
cestors :  they  still  contained  the  cruelty  of  the  ancient 
Carthaginians,  the  fanatical  bravery  of  the  Arabs, 
the  dogged  courage  of  the  Roman  legions  and  the 
Normans.  To  shoot  down  a  dozen  of  them  would 
merely  make  the  rest  the  more  determined  and  fe- 
rocious. 

The  remaining  carabineers  were  probably  too  much 
knocked  about  to  outstrip  the  mob.  The  old  priest 
could  never  keep  pace  with  them.  The  Syndic? 
Doubtless  hiding  in  his  cafe.  .  .  .  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  Sebastian  cursed  the  defection  of  the  forces 
of  law  and  order. 

But  the  torches  were  beginning  to  send  red  and 
yellow  flashes  through  the  foliage  of  the  upper  slope. 
And  the  silence  of  that  progress  was  more  ominous 
than  the  former  uproar. 

"  Annibale,  get  into  the  house.  Bolt  the  front  door 
and  the  windows.  Stand  beside  the  Signura.  Above 
everything,  don't  let  off  that  gun.  If  they  seem 
likely  to  pass  me,  carry  her  out  the  back  door  to  the 
temple.  Fannia  will  follow  you.  By  morning,  the 
priest  and  the  police  may  have  them  in  their  senses 
again.  Give  her  in  Don  Vigilio's  care.  Here's  my 
pocket-book.  Divide  the  money  into  two  parts. 


352  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

One  half  for  that  brat  of  yours.  The  other  half  to 
take  the  Signura  north.  Off  with  you!  You've 
barely  time  to  barricade." 

Annibale  stepped  back  aghast. 

"You  ask  me  to  do  that!" 

"I  order  you  to  take  care  of  the  Signura." 

"And  leave  you  here!" 

"Precisely.  There's  just  one  chance,  and  I  can 
only  take  it  alone.  Are  you  gone?  " 

The  young  man's  mouth  quivered.     He  gasped: 

"Signuri!    You  command  me  to  be  a  coward?" 

"In  Turrigianti,  then,  it's  much  braver  to  let  the 
women  be  killed?" 

Annibale  looked  toward  the  house.     In  the  win- 
dow, dimly,  he  saw  Ghirlaine  and  Fannia  together, 
and  at  Fannia's  breast  the  baby.    Tears  gushed  from 
his  eyes.     He  uttered  a  whine,  like  a  distracted  ani- 
7  mal,  and  beat  his  deep  chest  with  his  clenched  fists. 
&  Then  he  made  a  wild  gesture,  thrust  out  one  hand, 
g-palm  down,  toward  the  shifting  torch-light,  seized 
Sebastian's  hand  in  a  convulsive  grip,  and  ran  to- 
the  villa. 

ic  door  slammed.    Almost  immediately,  from 
i,  there  rose  a  cry  of  protest.     But  with  a  suc- 
cion  of  sharp  claps  the  shutters  came  together. 
Silence  fell. 

Sebastian  walked  forward  to  the  edge  of  the  hill- 
top. 

Below  him,  behind  a  purplish-black  net-work  of 
branches,  the  woods  seemed  afire.  Here  and  there, 
through  those  interstices,  a  piercing  flame  leaped 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  353 

forth,  then  was  quenched  by  thicker  foliage.  But 
among  all  the  taller  tree-tops,  on  the  under  sides 
of  the  stone-pines,  up  the  thick  columns  of  the 
cypresses,  was  spreading  a  glare  of  smoky  crimson. 

He  fixed  his  gaze  on  a  point  about  a  hundred  yards 
below,  where  the  path  issued  into  a  sort  of  clearing. 
Suddenly,  this  space  was  full  of  torches.  Their  crude 
radiance  reached  forth  through  the  night,  and  played 
about  him.  Beneath  them  he  perceived,  as  it  were, 
a  river  of  men,  flowing  upward  with  incredible  swift- 
ness. A  shout  rang  out :  some  one  had  sighted  him. 
And  instantly  the  stillness  was  ended  by  a  great 
crash  of  voices: 

' '  Jettatura  I    Poisoner !    Assassin ! ' ' 

Now  they  came  even  faster,  scrambling,  jostling, 
stumbling,  and  falling  in  their  haste.  The  trees  once 
more  engulfed  them.  And  that  was  the  last  screen 
between  them  and  their  prey. 

At  heart  he  had  ever  been  practically  as  much  a 
savage  as  these  savages  who  sought  his  life.  Now, 
groping  desperately  for  some  defence  against  them, 
he  found  hi  himself  no  vestige  of  that  superior  moral 
force  by  which  alone  one  man  in  such  a  situation  may 
triumph  over  many.  He  realized  his  inadequacy — 
maybe  he  even  glimpsed  the  reason  for  it.  In  that 
case  he  should  have  appreciated  the  sardonic  irony 
of  Fate,  which  one  day,  inevitably,  confronts  us  with 
the  peril  we  might  have  put  to  rout,  if  long  ago  we 
had  not  disarmed  ourselves. 

He  looked  up  at  the  blue  stars,  thinking  that  what- 
ever happened  they  would  go  on  shining.  He  noted 


354  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

certain  constellations.  The  names  of  them  flashed 
through  his  mind,  with  their  peculiarities  and  dis- 
tances. He  remembered  using  some  of  them  in  a 
romance,  as  a  decoration,  and  a  means  of  introduc- 
ing a  passage  that  one  critic  had  called,  "A  typical 
instance  of  his  perversity.  ..." 

Hector  de  Chaumont  had  complimented  him  on 
that  passage,  simpering  in  a  cravat  of  old-rose  silk 
and  white-linen  gaiters.  Sangallo  had  sat  there  silent, 
pulling  at  his  short  black  beard.  He  saw  the  room, 
Andreas  Romano vitch's,  full  of  glistening  books,  and 
porcelain,  and  silver  boxes,  and  carved  furniture. 
There  were  three  bottles  on  the  table,  of  vermouth, 
absinthe,  and  brandy.  Andreas  had  just  mentioned 
Ghirlaine  Bellamy — her  success  at  a  recent  charity 
bazaar.  He  had  seen  her  there,  behind  a  counter, 
beside  Princess  Betty,  clad  in  an  exquisite  costume 
of  gray,  selling  hand-painted  calendars  to  a  swarm  of 
fashionably  dressed  men  and  women.  He  recalled 
her  smile,  her  charming  manner  with  those  elbow- 
ing strangers  all  excited  by  their  opportunity  to 
treat  as  saleswomen  the  members  of  the  Roman 
aristocracy.  He  remembered  his  thought,  at  that 
time,  "Andreas  was  right:  an  uncrowned  princess. 
One  who  would  never  find  herself  amiss  in  any 
situation.  ..." 

And  now  she  was  here,  behind  him,  in  this  villa — • 
and  the  mob  was  at  his  throat! 

From  the  fringe  of  trees  burst  the  streaming 
torches.  He  heard  the  panting  of  a  hundred  men, 
the  pounding  of  innumerable  feet.  All  eyes,  and 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  355 

teeth,  and  rags,  and  leaping  knees,  they  hurled  them- 
selves, like  a  breaking  wave,  straight  at  him. 

Even  at  that  last  instant,  he  asked  himself: 

"Will  it  be  knives,  or  fists  and  feet?" 

Then,  like  lightning,  a  new  thought: 

"But  it  can't  be  either!  For  she  is  there,  helpless, 
except  for  me.  .  .  .  We're  not  yet  done  with  each 
other.  .  .  .  We're  not  yet  done  with  countless 
things.  ..." 

Was  he  himself?  Was  he  not  something,  a  part 
of  something,  greater  than  himself?  If  not,  whence 
grew  this  sudden,  mysterious  influx  of  strength,  wit, 
and  reassurance?  This  conviction,  that  such  an  end 
could  not  possibly  be  intended? 

Motionless,  in  the  glare  of  the  onrushing  torches, 
he  awaited  the  mob. 

Their  swarthy  faces  were  distorted  wellnigh  be- 
yond recognition.  Through  dangling  hair  their  eye- 
balls sent  forth  sharp  flashes.  Shirts  in  ribbons  re- 
vealed chests  heaving  with  fatigue  and  fury.  And 
the  attitudes  of  all  those  hurtling  legs  and  arms  were 
extravagant,  incredible.  Here  and  there,  an  arm 
swung  up  a  club,  or  brandished  a  stiletto,  as  if 
double-jointed.  He  saw  blackened  fingers  twisted 
round  the  fragment  of  an  oar,  the  gaps  between  teeth 
in  a  wide-open  mouth,  the  swollen  veins  of  a  fore- 
head, the  sweat  running  down  a  dusky  corded  neck. 
Those  visages  were  strangely  different,  even  in  the 
contortion  of  their  frenzy.  Some  were  revealed 
vividly  as  Asiatic,  others  as  African,  one  here  and 
there  displayed  the  pallid  convulsion  of  the  Northern 


356  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

berserk.  It  seemed  as  though,  in  this  conglomera- 
tion, that  was  all  Sicilian  and  yet  of  many  peoples,  a 
universal,  not  a  local,  vengeance  was  being  hurled  at 
him.  The  enmity,  personified,  of  all  the  world.  .  .  . 

In  every  mob,  before  the  final  onslaught,  there 
comes  one  instant,  however  short,  of  involuntary  re- 
coil, when  the  wave  seems  to  hang  motionless,  before 
the  crash. 

So,  almost  within  arm's  reach,  this  wave  of  mad- 
men lost  speed,  swayed,  hesitated,  and  seemed  to 
settle  back  upon  itself,  before  engulfing  him. 

Was  it,  in  this  case,  his  immobility  that  held  them 
so?  Was  it  then:  desire  to  feed  their  eyes  upon  this 
integral  thing  that  they  were  going  to  tear  to  pieces? 
Or  was  it  the  shock  of  perceiving  on  his  face  a  smile? 

A  smile!  Not  of  bitter  defiance  in  the  face  of 
death:  for  they  could  have  understood  that  sort, 
and  disregarded  it.  A  smile  such  as  they  had  never 
seen  before,  that  seemed  to  say  only,  "What  a 
phenomenon!" 

It  was  the  one  look  to  pierce  their  frenzy  —  to  make 
them  feel  that  here  was  one  allied  to  something,  or 
borne  up  by  something,  quite  beyond  their  ken. 

His  solitary  figure,  taller  apparently  than  life, 
stood  against  the  darkness  of  this  hilltop,  which 
had  contained  for  each  of  them,  since  childhood, 
inscrutable  and  ghastly  threats.  He  seemed,  indeed, 
the  evil  genius  of  this  place,  uncanny  in  his  stillness, 
inhuman  in  his  look. 

The  wave  quivered  again  throughout,  but  did  not 

break- 


Metro  Pictures 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  357 

Then,  from  the  depths  of  the  mob,  a  red,  horizon- 
tal point  of  flame  spat  at  him  five  times.  The  shots 
flew  wide.  He  saw,  behind  the  film  of  smoke,  a 
familiar  visage.  And,  in  the  hush  that  descended 
abruptly  over  all,  he  said: 

"Big  Paganni,  I'm  afraid  you  forgot  to  nick  your 
bullets  with  a  cross." 

It  was  a  tone  so  sane — almost  of  ironical  reproof — 
that  it  affected  even  those  disordered  minds.  It  drew 
them  back  a  little  way  toward  reality.  It  recalled  to 
them  that  somewhere,  at  one  time  or  other,  they  had 
spoken  nearly  so.  It  caused  an  anticlimax. 

But  their  egotism  surged  up  in  arms  against  that 
anticlimax!  Just  now  they  had  felt  themselves  to 
be  terrible,  they  had  gloried  in  that  feeling.  They 
had  experienced  the  frightful  exultation  of  the  mob, 
drunk  with  the  knowledge  of  its  strength.  And  now 
they  resented  passionately  this  depreciation  of  their 
ferocity.  Their  immediate  impulse  was  to  regain 
the  prestige  they  had  lost. 

With  a  growl  of  gathering  volume,  they  swayed 
forward. 

Instead  of  flinching,  he  began  to  fix  first  one  and 
then  another  with  his  eyes.  His  gaze  rested  on  old 
Ilario 

"Hario,  you,  at  least,  should  have  the  common- 
sense  and  the  authority  of  age.  I  see  you  here  well 
in  front.  I  judge  you're  somewhat  a  leader  of  your 
fellows.  Maybe  the  rest  will  agree  to  let  you  be 
their  spokesman?" 

Beneath  the  glitter  of  ,the  smoking  torches,  the  old 


358  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

ruffian  blinked,  threw  back  his  working  face,  then 
barked,  while  shaking  his  knife  before  the  other's 
eyes: 

"What  we  have  in  our  hands  speaks  well  enough 
for  us,  assassin!" 

The  deep  semicircle  growled  again,  and  moved 
closer.  Sebastian  inquired : 

"So  you've  come  in  the  interests  of  the  two 
strangers  whom  I  discouraged  from  killing  me?" 

"Well  you  know  that  we've  not!" 

Cries  echoed  this  retort: 

"Tell  him,  then,  Ilario!  Tell  him  what  he  already 
knows,  before  we  chop  him  into  bait!  Give  him  his 
crime  and  his  sentence!  We  know  how  to  do  justice,. 
even  to  the  Devil!" 

"By  all  means,"  replied  Sebastian,  "let's  give  the 
crime  a  name,  before  the  execution.  It's  on  Nino's 
account,  perhaps?  For  I  hear  that  Nino's  disap- 
peared— little  Nino,  the  ex-apprentice  to  the  Ca- 
morra.  But  in  that  case,  you  would  all  be  related 
to  the  Camorra.  And  that's  impossible.  You,  to 
dip  your  hands  into  such  dirty  business !  For  I  know 
that  the  men  of  Turrigianti  are  at  least  honest 
men." 

Old  Ilario  stared  and  stared,  till  this  speech  had 
penetrated  his  mind.  At  last,  he  shook  himself,  and 
howled: 

"You  know  what  we're  here  for!    The  cholera!" 

And  fifty  voices  echoed  him  with  a  long  hoarse 
clatter: 

"The  cholera,  murderer!    The  cholera,  poisoner! 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  359 

Poisoner  of  clean  fields!  Assassin  of  little  children! 
Jettatura !  Magician ! ' ' 

Big  Paganni's  voice  persisted,  raving  after  the 
others : 

"He  gave  food  to  my  son!  Which  he  had  filled 
with  the  poison  of  the  cholera.  His  heart  for  me!" 

The  empty  revolver  clicked  thrice,  then  whizzed 
past  Sebastian's  head.  And  new  cries: 

"Enough!  Enough!  Strike,  Ilario !  Up  under  his 
ribs!" 

And  a  seething  of  men,  as  those  behind  struggled 
to  get  forward,  with  the  ejaculations: 

"One  side!  Let  me  through!  No  one  before  the 
others,  but  all  together!  None  must  be  cheated  of 
his  part!" 

An  uproar  ensued.  The  crowd  boiled  and,  as  it 
were,  turned  inside  out.  New  figures  appeared  sud- 
denly in  the  foreground,  glaring,  crouching,  their 
countenances  strangely  elongated  by  menace,  to  en- 
counter his  eyes. 

He  said: 

"I  see.  The  cholera  has  come  to  Turrigianti. 
And  naturally,  you  want  to  drive  it  out.  But  by 
yourselves  you  feel  incapable  of  that.  So,  since  you 
think  I  may  be  able  to  help  you,  you  turn  to  me. 
You  come  to  me  with  this  proposition,  '  Either  help 
us  to  drive  out  the  cholera,  or  we'll  do  for  you  here 
and  now.": 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But  that  wasn't  necessary.  Two  of  us  were 
drowning  in  the  sea,  and  men  of  Turrigianti  saved  us. 


360  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

We  came  to  shore  helpless,  and  Turrigianti  took  us 
in.  We  received  your  hospitality.  We  fell  in  your 
debt.  Yet,  when  the  chance  comes  for  me  to  try 
to  repay  that  debt,  you  misdoubt  my  willingness  to 
do  so. 

"You  might  have  sent  one  man  to  say:  'The 
cholera  is  here.  We  have  no  hope.  We  shall  die 
like  flies,  as  other  villages  have  died,  unless  some  one 
comes  quickly  to  our  aid.  But  you  have  seen  many 
lands,  in  their  health  and  in  their  sickness.  Do  you 
know  something  of  the  mystery  of  this  plague?  Can 
you  help  us? ' 

"To  that  one  man  I  would  have  replied,  as  I  reply 
now  to  all  of  you,  with  your  weapons  in  your  hands : 
'I  will  help  you.  Together  we  will  drive  out  this 
cholera."' 

He  put  out  his  free  hand,  with  the  Sicilian  gesture 
of  oath- taking,  and  repeated: 

"We  will  drive  it  out  together." 

Their  faces  were  filled  with  blank  amazement.  In 
the  expression  of  all  those  open  mouths  and  protrud- 
ing eyes,  there  was  something  grotesquely  childish. 
After  all,  they  were  children!  They  had  been  chil- 
dren all  the  while! 

His  habitual  sense  of  mastery  returned  to  him. 
He  felt  again  the  exhilaration  of  power  over  others. 

But  old  Ilario  commenced  to  recover.     He  panted : 

"Sangu  di  Baccu!    And  you,  who  brought  it!" 

"You  think  I  brought  the  cholera?  Mai  'cchiuf 
Ilario,  you  have  more  intelligence  than  that.  You 
know  well  it  was  the  jugglers  from  Naples." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  361 

The  ancient,  dancing  on  his  old  feet,  both  arms 
raised  above  his  head,  screamed  in  Sebastian's  face: 

"Do  you  suppose  nobody  has  seen  you  walking 
through  our  fields,  behind  the  village,  poisoning 
them!" 

"With  what,  for  the  love  of  God?" 

"How  should  I  know  about  your  magic,  accursed 
magician!" 

"You,  who  hardly  know  me,  call  me  that?  Why 
not  ask  Annibale  and  Fannia,  who  happen  to  know 
me  well?  " 

"Those  animals!  You've  bewitched  them!  You 
have  their  bodies  and  souls,  and  make  of  them  what 
you  like!" 

Sebastian  tapped  the  old  man  on  the  chest. 

"You  talk  like  an  imbecile.  Are  we  grown  men, 
or  children?  Is  this  rubbish  the  best  thing  we  can 
find  to  wrangle  over,  when  every  life  on  this  island 
is  in  danger?" 

"Through  you,"  hissed  Hario,  and,  with  a  snake- 
like  movement,  struck  at  Sebastian  with  his  knife. 
The  latter's  hand  flashed  up  and  caught  the  arm  of 
the  fisherman  in  mid-air.  Holding  the  ancient  thus, 
Sebastian  turned  to  the  others.  He  went  on,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened: 

"I  advise  you,  if  you  value  your  health,  to  go 
home.  To  shut  yourselves  up,  each  with  his  own 
family.  To  wash  your  hands  well  in  hot  water.  To 
eat  and  drink  nothing.  By  sunrise,  when  I've  seen 
Don  Vigilio,  I  shall  be  with  you.  Then  we'll  begin 
to  fight  this  cholera. 


362  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"That  is,  if  you  do  as  I  advise.  Otherwise,  I  shall 
not  be  responsible.  Your  own  obstinacy  will  destroy 
you,  and  your  wives,  and  your  children,  till  no  one  is 
left  in  Turrigianti  to  bury  the  dead.  It's  obedience 
and  life,  or  disobedience  and  death.  Take  your 
choice." 

A  groan  broke  from  old  Ilario.  His  knees  bent; 
his  muscles  cracked;  his  knife  fell  from  his  fingers. 
Sebastian  released  him,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  went, 
without  looking  back,  through  the  shadows  to  the 
villa. 

Annibale  unbarred  the  door.  Inside,  the  lights 
were  all  extinguished.  Sebastian  traversed  the  black 
corridor  to  Ghirlaine's  room,  and  knocked. 

Her  low  voice  answered: 

"Come  in." 

He  passed  the  threshold  which  he  had  not  crossed 
since  that  night  of  tempest  and  madness. 

Ghirlaine  and  Fannia  drew  back  from  the  window, 
and  leaned  against  the  wall.  He  peered  out,  through 
the  loop-holes  in  the  shutters.  He  perceived,  on  the 
edge  of  the  hilltop,  the  dripping  torches  clustered 
all  together,  and  beneath  them  the  close-packed 
heads.  A  racket  of  contending  voices  came  to  him. 
Some  phrases  were  distinct: 

"All  lies!  ...  But  what  he  has  brought  he  can 
be  frightened  into  taking  away?  ...  If  we  kill  him 
to-night,  it  goes  on.  ...  Let  him  lift  the  spell,  then, 
the  son  of  ten  thousand  dogs!  ..." 

Big  Paganni's  voice: 

"He  gave  poisoned  food  to  my  son!  ..." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  363 

"Is  your  son  sick?" 

"Notyet- 

"Then  hold  your  tongue  for  the  present.  He  shall 
make  us  all  safe,  or  die.  Every  poisoner  has  his 
remedies,  to  protect  himself.  ..." 

Sebastian  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  volunteered: 

"They'll  soon  be  going  now." 

At  times,  some  voice  rose  shrill  above  the  rest  in 
protest: 

"And  /  say  he  has  duped  us!  His  work  is  done. 
As  soon  as  our  backs  are  turned,  he  and  the  woman 
will  slip  down  the  cliffs  and  walk  away,  over  the  sea, 
as  they  came!" 

"If  they  could  do  that,  they  would  have  done  it 
while  we  were  climbing.  ..." 

And  the  still  room  was  penetrated  by  old  Ilario's 
bark: 

"Cowards!  To  let  the  net  slip,  when  the  fish  are 
in  it!  I  go  after  him  now.  Who  follows?" 

The  crowd  parted,  and  he  emerged,  with  waving 
arms,  and  made  for  the  house.  The  rest  stood  watch- 
ing him.  When  he  had  come  half-way,  he  halted, 
looked  behind  him,  and  retraced  his  steps,  with  a 
volley  of  oaths.  The  others  received  him  with  sar- 
casm: 

" Sicuru!     You  have  no  children!  ..." 

Sebastian  left  the  window. 

"It's  over,"  he  said. 

Crossing  the  room  with  dragging  feet,  Ghirlaine 
sank  upon  the  bed.  He  seated  himself  in  the  chair. 

Long  minutes  passed.  .  .  . 

Fannia  turned  from  the  window. 


364  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Look,  Signuri!" 

The  torches  were  gone.  Only  a  faint  radiance 
remained  among  the  tree-tops  of  the  slope. 

Annibale  entered  with  a  lighted  candle,  and  set  it 
on  the  chest  of  drawers.  Then,  bending  forward,  his 
face  hidden  behind  his  arms,  he  began  to  weep.  In 
long,  shivering  sobs,  the  words  escaped  him : 

"I  am  a  coward!  ...  I  am  a  coward!  .  .  .  I've 
hidden  behind  women's  skirts!  ..." 

Raising  his  head,  he  cast  a  swimming  look  at  the 
baby,  asleep  in  Fannia's  arms. 

"And  my  son  has  been  witness  of  it!" 

Oblivious  to  Sebastian's  involuntary  grin,  he 
stumbled  into  the  corridor.  But  Fannia  sped  after 
him,  her  cry  re-echoing: 

"Annibale!    Annibale!  .  .  ." 

Sebastian  turned  to  Ghirlaine. 

She  was  staring  at  him,  her  cheeks  colorless,  her 
eyes  brilliant  with  the  brilliancy  of  fever.  From  her 
countenance  all  pride  and  strength  had  disappeared, 
and  that  change  was  startling.  Her  beauty,  despite 
its  ravagement,  was  a  new  beauty  infinitely  more 
poignant  than  the  old,  as  if  a  veil  which  had  always 
shrouded  it  had  at  last  been  lifted. 

On  the  edge  of  the  bed,  supported  by  one  arm,  her 
lithe  shape  seemed  sinking  backward  in  surrender  to 
emotional  exhaustion.  Her  hair,  transformed  into 
spun  gold  by  the  candle-light,  her  misty,  unnaturally 
shining  eyes,  her  half-parted  lips  that  had  never 
known  this  enigmatical  contour,  made  her  appear 
like  a  woman  he  had  never  seen  before. 

And  at  that  moment  he  seemed  as  strange  to  her 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  365 

as  she  to  him.  His  clothes,  his  immediate  surround- 
ings, appeared  unspeakably  incongruous.  That  dark 
countenance,  that  big  figure,  should  have  been 
framed  in  iron  or  in  skins — in  the  costume  of  some 
other  age,  to  which  he  really  belonged.  For  did  not 
this  modern  body  hold  a  spirit  straight  out  of  the 
tumultuous  and  violent  past — such  a  being  as  those 
who,  once  on  a  time,  were  wont  to  grapple  joyously 
with  fate  at  its  moment  of  high  strength,  and  return, 
victorious,  unscathed  because  of  their  very  contempt 
of  death,  to  find  waiting  for  them  the  instinctive  wel- 
come of  the  ages? 

She  seemed  for  an  instant  to  see  him  so,  and  to  feel,, 
in  her  heart,  an  infinitely  simpler  sensation — an  im- 
pulse reasonless,  reckless,  absolutely  primitive.  .  .  .. 
What  mad  dream  was  she  slipping  into? 

All  the  hushed  night  seemed  waiting  for  his  next 
utterance. 

He  said: 

"I  think  I,  instead  of  Annibale,  have  been  the 
coward,  to  frighten  you  so  for  nothing." 

Then,  as  if  he  had  just  realized  that  they  were 
alone,  he  stood  up. 

"  Well,  rest  assured,  that  at  least  is  done  for.  .  .  . 
Good-night." 

Her  eyes  followed  him  to  the  door.  It  came  shut 
behind  him. 

And  she  woke. 

Whom  had  she  been!  . 


CHAPTER  XX 

HALF  an  hour  later,  Don  Vigilio  reached  the  villa. 

The  climb,  and  his  anxiety,  had  worn  him  out. 
On  his  way,  he  had  encountered  the  islanders  return- 
ing, and  his  denunciation  of  them  had  left  deep 
wounds  in  his  soft  old  heart.  Sitting  in  the  portico, 
like  a  scant  sack  of  meal  inside  his  rusty  cassock,  he 
explained  feebly  to  Sebastian: 

"For  after  all,  my  son,  it's  like  beating  a  horse  for 
taking  fright  and  bolting.  God  made  these  poor  folk 
incredibly  nervous,  under  their  stolidity.  And  to- 
day's developments  just  finished  them." 

Already,  besides  the  carabineers,  a  fisherman  had 
shown  the  first  symptoms,  while  two  women  were 
prostrated  by  the  "false  cholera"  that  is  induced  by 
fright.  Sebastian  remarked: 

"We  must  begin  as  soon  as  you're  able  to  re- 
turn." 

"Begin!    Without  doctors?    Without  remedies? " 

"There  is  no  specific  remedy  for  cholera.  One  can 
only  isolate  the  cases,  make  a  system  of  hygiene  for 
the  rest  to  follow,  and  experiment  with  the  various 
treatments.  Diet,  friction,  hot  baths,  and  so  on. 
Such  palliatives  as  opium,  valerianate,  calomel,  qui- 
nine, tannin,  lactic  acid." 

Don  Vigilio  groaned: 

366 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  367 

"None  of  those  things,  not  one,  in  Torregiante!" 

"I  must  see  what  I  can  do  myself  in  the  way  of 
lactic  acid  and  tannin.  .  .  .  Camphor?" 

The  old  man  raised  his  shoulders  helplessly.  But 
abruptly  he  started.  In  a  whisper: 

"Under  the  altar,  in  the  leaden  case  that  contains 
Saint  Giosue's  garments!  The  robes  are  packed  in 
camphor!" 

"Camphor  balls?" 

"No,  no,  no!  Gum  camphor!  Pure  chunks  of 
it!" 

"  Good  enough.  Who  shall  say  that  Saint  Giosue 
may  not  perform  new  miracles?" 

Don  Vigilio  nodded  hi  amazement. 

"You  are  right,"  he  assented,  simply.  "Who,  in- 
deed?" He  rose  to  his  feet,  his  frail  figure  gal- 
vanized by  hope.  "It  is  a  reproof  to  my  despair, 
my  lack  of  faith,  my  miserable  panic!" 

"But  camphor  alone,  you  understand,  isn't  every- 
thing!" 

"Never  mind:  it  is  a  sign  to  begin  with.  As  for 
the  rest,  inspiration  will  surely  answer  effort.  Let 
us  go  down  now!  Let  us  at  least  begin!  ..." 

They  descended  the  hillside. 

On  the  slope,  they  met  a  carabineer  ascending. 
He  was  a  private,  from  some  far-off  northern  prov- 
ince, young,  blond,  his  face  disfigured  by  a  half-dry 
cut.  His  cocked  hat  was  gone.  His  smart  uniform 
was  torn  and  dirty.  He  limped  painfully,  using  his 
sword-scabbard  for  a  cane.  The  mob,  before  start- 
ing to  the  headland,  had  set  on  him  and  his  com- 


368  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

panion  savagely.  His  comrade  was  in  the  police 
station  with  a  broken  leg.  He,  for  his  part,  was 
struggling  up  the  hill  to  find  out  how  the  villa  folk 
had  fared. 

Said  Sebastian: 

"You'd  best  finish  your  climb,  and  let  my  people 
care  for  you." 

The  youth  drew  himself  up  and  saluted.  His  pale 
face  was  calm  and  proud.  He  did  not  forget  that  he 
was  a  carabineer,  and  the  last  effective  representa- 
tive of  law  in  Torregiante. 

"Since  you  are  safe,  I  will  return  with  your  Excel- 
lency and  the  Reverendo." 

Sebastian  supporting  him  with  his  free  arm,  they 
continued  down  the  hill. 

The  esplanade  was  crowded.  All  the  village 
seemed  gathered  there,  round  the  little  shrines  set 
high  hi  the  corners  of  the  houses,  to-night  lighted 
with  many  tapers,  and  heaped  up  with  flowers  and 
pinchbeck  jewelry.  The  tiny,  flickering  flames  illu- 
minated the  drawn  faces  and  drooping  figures.  Ev- 
«ry  countenance  was  stamped  with  that  sense  of 
tragedy  which  no  visage  can  show  more  vividly  than 
the  Sicilian. 

As  the  new-comers  approached,  the  islanders  drew 
back,  with  sullen  mutterings.  One  harpy  hi  a  loggia 
reached  forth  her  claws  and  screamed  an  hysterical 
imprecation.  Don  Vigilio  looked  up  at  her,  smiled 
gently,  and  answered,  in  his  thin,  quavering  voice, 
that  all  of  them  involuntarily  associated  with  the 
mysteries  of  birth,  death,  and  immortality: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  369 

"Have  patience,  my  daughter.  We  are  here  to 
help  you." 

The  woman  shrank  back. 

Before  the  Grand  Cafe  of  the  Sea,  they  found  the 
Syndic,  brick-red  in  the  lamp-light,  his  eyes  protrud- 
ing more  than  ever  from  confusion,  cringing,  as  it 
were,  behind  his  walrus's  mustache.  He  began  to 
stammer  excuses.  He  had  gone  to  sleep  early  in  the 
back  of  his  house.  He  was  a  tremendous  sleeper. 
The  uproar  had  not  even  waked  him.  If  only  he  had 
known! 

Sebastian  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Of  course.  If  only  you  had,  you  might  have 
passed  them  half  a  dozen  words  of  common-sense, 
and  saved  them  their  trip  up  and  down." 

"Ah,  Body  of  Bacchus,  it  is  true — they  must  have 
been  completely  mad!  A  word  from  me,  as  you 
say.  ...  But,  Madrecidda,  as  any  one  can  tell  you, 
when  once  I  start  snoring,  they  might  shoot  off 
cannons.  ..." 

They  took  him  with  them,  still  boggling  at  his  ex- 
planations, toward  the  parish-house. 

On  the  way,  they  came  across  a  lean  shadow 
skulking  along  beside  the  house  walls.  It  was  the 
school-master. 

The  "starved  rat,"  checked  in  his  endeavor  to 
slink  off  home,  managed  to  compose  his  features. 
Slipping  to  Sebastian's  side,  he  whispered,  as  they 
proceeded: 

"All  my  felicitations,  Excellency.  It  was  tre- 
mendous!" 


370  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"What  was  tremendous?" 

"Capers — your  treatment  of  these  pigs!  I  was 
there!  I  didn't  make  my  presence  known,  because  I 
knew  perfectly  how  it  .would  turn  out.  I  went  along, 
because  I  was  curious  to  see  the  humiliation  of  igno- 
rance by  intellect.  Such  a  spectacle  is  so  refreshing, 
so  heartening,  while  we  are  waiting  for  the  final,  great 
humiliation  of  ignorance — of  all  these  old,  worn-out 
governments  and  religions!  .  .  .  All  the  same,  when 
you'd  turned  your  back  on  them,  I  did  my  little  part. 
Quite  unnecessary,  certainly;  but  I  couldn't  resist  a 
few  additional  sarcasms.  Perhaps  they  had  their 
small  effect,  in  hastening  those  cretini  to  make  up 
what  they  call  their  minds?" 

"Many  thanks,  I'm  sure." 

"Nothing,  Excellency!  We  others,  you  see!  The 
freemasonry  of  intellect!" 

They  arrived  at  the  parish-house.  The  Syndic 
was  shouting  at  the  priest,  in  his  effort  to  make  his 
tale  convincing  once  for  all: 

"The  whole  house  will  tell  you  that  when  once  I 
begin  to  play  the  ritirata  on  my  nose,  they  might 
kill  a  pig  under  my  bed.  ..." 

The  school-master,  drawing  Sebastian  aside,  in- 
quired secretly,  with  a  febrile  eagerness: 

"Excellency,  may  one  ask  how  you  plan  to  get 
away?" 

Sebastian  looked  down  steadily  into  those  shifty 
eyes.  The  fellow,  smiling  craftily,  explained: 

"Of  course,  I  understood  all  that  talk  up  there! 
The  wool  over  their  eyes,  et  cetera!  But  naturally, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  371 

the  intellects  of  the  future  mustn't  run  the  risk  of 
succumbing  to  the  suicidal  squalor  of  the  past.  So  I 
thought,  when  you  slip  away,  we  might  go  together?  "" 

Sebastian  uttered  a  short  laugh. 

"  Signer  School-master,  no  one  is  going  to  slip  away 
from  Turrigianti  till  the  cholera  is  finished,  or  till  the 
cholera  has  finished  us.  For  you,  for  Don  Vigilio, 
for  the  Syndic,  and,  by  chance,  for  me,  the  pro- 
gramme has  arranged  itself  automatically.  After 
you,  my  friend." 

And  he  pushed  the  other,  suddenly  all  limp  and 
pallid,  into  the  parish-house. 

Round  the  table  in  the  priest's  dismal  little  sitting- 
room,  they  came  finally  to  agreement.  Sebastian,  to- 
whom  the  rest  deferred  instinctively,  apportioned  the 
necessary  tasks. 

The  carabineer  was  to  direct  the  policing  of  the 
wells,  and  guard  the  cleanliness  of  the  water-front. 
The  Syndic  was  to  have  all  rations  prepared  in  his 
cook-shop,  protected  from  flies,  and  served  out  to  the 
village.  The  school-master  was  to  see  that  no  other 
food  was  eaten,  and  to  burn,  or  disinfect  if  they  came 
on  disinfectants,  the  belongings  of  the  victims.  Se- 
bastian and  Don  Vigilio  were  to  isolate  and  care  for 
the  sick,  and  order  the  burial  of  the  dead.  It  was 
the  priest  who  suggested  turning  the  parish-house 
into  a  hospital. 

"For,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "this  is  the 
only  house,  I'm  sure,  that  they'd  consent  to  be  re- 
moved to."  And  turning  to  Sebastian:  "Alas,  we're 
going  to  fight  more  than  cholera!  We  have  against 


372  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

us  I  don't  know  what  lethargy  and  fatalism!  You 
will  see  men  refuse  to  take  the  measures  that  mean 
life  to  them!  You  will  see  women  try  to  stop  us 
from  doing  things  they  can't  understand,  to  save 
their  children  for  them !  It's  going  to  be  a  nightmare ! 
A  nightmare  of  poor  wretches  bent  on  destroying 
themselves!  ..." 

And  the  struggle  which  began  that  night  was,  in- 
deed, a  nightmare. 

In  that  squalor  and  promiscuity  of  living,  the 
plague  spread  rapidly.  On  the  second  day — a  day  of 
unprecedented  heat  and  breathlessness — the  cara- 
bineer private  and  two  fishermen  were  dead,  while  a 
dozen  others  had  reached  their  crises. 

Toward  evening,  a  swarm  of  men  and  women 
swept  down  the  esplanade,  climbed  the  eastern  prom- 
ontory, and  poured  into  the  church.  For  two  days, 
their  tongues  licking  the  dust,  they  had  prayed  to 
Saint  Giosue  to  save  them  from  this  witchcraft,  and 
he  had  done  nothing.  The  diminutives,  terms  of  en- 
dearment and  supplication,  with  which  they  had  ad- 
dressed him  hitherto,  gave  place,  hi  that  frantic  rush, 
to  blasphemy  and  obscenity.  In  the  sacred  edifice, 
packed  in  a  howling  mass  about  the  little  chapel 
where  his  picture  hung,  they  hurled  at  him  their  worst 
abuse,  clods  of  mud,  all  manner  of  actual  and  verbal 
filth.  A  rock  struck  the  ancient  portrait  in  the  face, 
split  the  panel,  and  knocked  it  down  among  the  brass 
candle-sticks  and  paper  flowers  of  the  altar.  In- 
stantly, all  was  silence,  immobility.  The  rioters 
stared  at  their  work,  as  at  a  frightful  omen.  Then  a 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  373 

woman  wailed,  and  set  loose  the  reaction.  More 
terror-stricken  than  before,  they  poured  out  of  the 
church,  with  sobs  and  cries  to  the  Madonna  and  the 
Saint  for  pardon.  They  scattered,  as  fast  as  their 
legs  would  carry  them,  to  their  houses,  and  bolted 
themselves  in. 

They  refused  to  come  out  and  get  the  food  pre- 
pared for  them.  If  it  was  brought  to  their  doors, 
they  threw  down  tiles  and  rocks  from  the  upper 
windows  on  the  "poisoner  and  his  dupes."  Now  and 
then,  when  the  cholera-fighters  drew  off  baffled,  a 
shot  followed  them,  or  the  cries: 

"Don  Vigilio,  stand  aside!  Give  us  a  chance  at 
the  big  one!" 

For  they  counted  on  some  sort  of  magic  from 
Sebastian  that  would  bring  them  instantaneous  relief. 
This  manner  of  doing  revived  their  worst  suspicions. 
Yet  they  hardly  dared  to  kill  him  even  now,  for  fear 
that  with  him  they  would  be  destroying  their  last 
chance. 

In  their  grimy  rooms,  with  swine  and  chicken  un- 
derfoot, amid  a  cloud  of  flies,  they  ate  green  fruit, 
raw  milk,  fish  caught  close  to  shore.  Only  the  clean 
vegetables  of  their  terraces  they  would  not  touch. 
But  with  the  wild  prodigality  of  fatalists  who  see 
death  imminent,  they  slaughtered  and  devoured  their 
pigs,  which  had  been  rooting  in  the  refuse  of  the  al- 
leys and  the  water-front. 

The  domiciliary  visits  ended,  more  often  than  not, 
in  miniature  riots.  The  well  fought  to  keep  the 
rescuers  from  the  bedsides  of  the  sick.  Argument 


374  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

was  useless  before  the  stubborn  belief,  reiterated  by 
screeching  voices,  that  Sebastian  wanted  to  remove 
the  patients  in  order  to  finish  them  at  his  ease.  Even 
the  priest  was  hustled,  his  words  drowned  out  by 
howls: 

"You  are  old!  You  are  simple!  He  has  fooled 
you!  What  do  you  know!" 

And  the  women,  beside  the  pallets  of  their  hus- 
bands, became  viragoes,  and  led  on  their  half-grown 
children,  armed  with  kitchen-knives  and  hatchets. 
When  they  had  been  disarmed,  the  carrying  of  the 
terror-stricken  invalid  to  the  parish-house  was  a 
running  battle. 

They  had  pressed  into  service  some  half  a  dozen 
young  men,  who  had  lived  their  army-terms  in  Italy, 
and  realized  the  stupidity  of  their  fellows.  Without 
such  aid,  indeed,  Sebastian  and  his  co-workers  could 
have  accomplished  nothing.  But  they  were  peril- 
ously few:  for  three  had  been  sent  off,  in  a  sail-boat, 
to  Sicily  in  search  of  help.  The  rest,  however, 
showed  the  bravery  and  obedience  of  good  soldiers. 

As  for  the  school-master,  he  was  practically  useless. 
For  two  days  he  pretended  to  go  about  his  duties. 
On  the  third,  as  he  was  pulling  a  mattress  from  a 
house  to  burn  it,  the  inmates  set  on  him  with  clubs, 
and  beat  him  black  and  blue.  Groaning,  showing 
his  teeth  at  Sebastian  and  Don  Vigilio,  cursing  them 
and  the  universe  at  large,  he  dragged  himself  home, 
to  the  top  of  a  ramshackle  building  near  the  parish- 
house,  and  stayed  there. 

The  "walrus,"  on  the  other  hand,  surprised  even 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  375 

himself  by  his  devotion.  In  the  depths  of  his  cook- 
shop,  before  his  long  range  covered  with  gaudy, 
Moorish-looking  tiles  and  set  with  little  charcoal  pits, 
from  time  to  time  he  stood  motionless,  to  cry: 

"Corpu  di  Baccu!  Am  I  the  Syndic  of  Turrigi- 
anti,  or  a  galley-slave?" 

Then  he  plunged  once  more  to  the  cooking  of  food 
that  none  but  the  cholera-fighters,  and  the  invalids 
in  the  parish-house,  could  be  brought  to  touch. 
And,  amid  the  steam,  his  fat  body,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  was  reflected,  in  its  lumbering  energy,  from  a 
score  of  copper  pots. 

Twice  a  day,  the  smoking  dishes,  of  spaghetti,  of 
broth,  of  barley-gruel,  were  carried,  covered  with 
sterilized  linen,  to  the  parish-house. 

There  all  the  rooms  were  full  of  pallets,  on  which 
the  sufferers  lay.  Immobile  on  their  backs,  they 
turned  up  to  the  dim  light  their  bluish  visages,  sharp- 
ened, sunken,  marked  one  and  all  with  a  half -dreamy 
conviction  of  a  fatal  outcome.  The  place  was  calm, 
with  the  calmness  of  a  region  removed  almost  be- 
yond the  confines  of  the  natural  world.  For  the 
patients,  at  their  first  seizure,  had  accepted  dissolu- 
tion as  a  certainty,  while  the  nurses,  who  saw  the 
plague  spreading  despite  their  hardest  efforts,  worked 
on  with  the  quietude  of  a  profound  despair. 

Even  old  Maria,  the  housekeeper,  moved  softly, 
and  achieved  the  miracle  of  a  whisper.  And  it 
seemed  that  day  and  night  that  violent-featured, 
obese  old  harridan  was  everywhere,  with  steaming 
blankets,  bottles,  and  gentle  hands.  She  took  Sebas- 
tian's orders  without  resentment.  Now  and  then, 


376  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

when  they  rose  together  from  a  bedside,  baffled  again 
by  death,  she  said  to  him,  while  blinking  back  the 
tears  from  eyes  long  unused  to  moisture: 

"Curragiu,  Signuri!    Next  time?  ..." 

When  a  crisis  was  safely  passed,  a  thrill  of  hope 
ran  among  the  fighters.  Forthwith,  the  news  was 
carried  from  the  promontory  to  the  village.  But  the 
islanders,  glowering  down  from  their  loggias  at  the 
messenger,  replied: 

"A  trick!  To  persuade  us  we  have  a  chance  to 
live,  when  once  he's  got  us  there!" 

Sometimes,  at  night,  shouting  from  house  to  house, 
they  planned  an  onslaught  on  the  hospital.  The 
sick  should  be  rescued  and  brought  home.  The  priest 
was  in  his  dotage;  he  should  be  locked  up.  As  for 
Sebastian,  he  should  be  torn  to  pieces. 

The  Syndic  came  out  of  the  cafe,  and  roared  at 
them: 

"Imbeciles!  It's  you  who  are  murdering  your 
own  children!" 

Wine-flasks  and  dishes  crashed  round  him.  He 
retreated  into  his  tunnel. 

In  the  darkness,  on  the  esplanade,  tragic  tableaux 
frequently  took  shape.  A  mother  lying  prostrate  on 
the  ground  before  a  niche  that  held  a  penny  print  of 
the  Madonna.  A  ragged  man  seated  on  the  pave- 
ment, groaning  in  his  first  seizure,  while  from  all  the 
windows  round  about  his  neighbors  watched  him 
silently,  in  horror.  Or,  to  the  thin  tinkle  of  a  bell, 
the  passing  of  the  Host,  to  some  dwelling  so  well 
defended  that  the  sick  had  not  been  removed. 

Through  the  shadows,  a  point  of  flame.     The  lit- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  377 

tie  acolyte,  in  a  torn  surplice,  bell  and  candle  in 
hand.  After  him,  Don  Vigilio,  vested,  bare-headed, 
holding  before  him  the  Santissinw.  His  fragile  face 
very  old  and  tired-looking,  but  exalted,  now  that 
he  had  this  Emblem  in  his  hands,  by  an  expression 
of  almost  fanatical  hope.  His  pace  faltering  from 
weariness,  but  always  recovering  its  speed.  For  the 
soul  toward  which  he  was  hurrying  must  not  go  un- 
shriven  of  its  offences. 

In  the  loggias,  in  the  doorways,  before  the  wooden 
lattices,  and  the  beached  sail-boats  looming  against 
the  stars,  the  islanders  sank  down  upon  their  knees, 
as  the  Santissimo  went  by.  For  the  moment,  they 
forgot  everything  but  that  symbol  of  supreme 
rescue,  which  Don  Vigilio  alone  could  bring  to  them. 

And,  as  he  returned,  perhaps  they  would  call  to 
him,  hi  altered  tones: 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  little  Padri.  We  can't 
spare  you.  We,  too,  shall  need  you  presently.  .  .  ." 

Sebastian,  also,  took  the  priest  to  task  concerning 
his  exertions. 

"At  your  age,  you  know,  one  can't  stand  this  for- 
ever, without  going  under.  Now  will  you  leave  all 
this  to  me  for  a  while,  and  get  a  decent  rest?" 

Don  Vigilio  smiled  gently. 

"Thank  you,  my  son.  I'll  take  an  hour  off.  I'll 
go  into  the  church,  and  celebrate  the  Mass.  That 
will  refresh  me  more  than  sleep." 

At  the  door,  he  paused  to  ask: 

"And  you?  How  long  do  you  expect  to  keep  on 
so?" 


378  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Sebastian  reflectively  crunched  a  piece  of  Saint 
Giosue's  camphor,  then  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Till  the  doctors  come,  I  fancy." 

"And  you,  who  haven't  my  support,  are  no  more 
afraid  than  tired?" 

"Afraid !  Of  course  I  am !  Every  time  I  put  any- 
thing into  my  mouth!  Almost  as  much  afraid,  I 
should  judge,  as  the  hermit,  up  yonder.  Who,  as 
you  may  have  noticed,  jolly  well  keeps  out  of  it.  ... 
Still,  I'm  just  a  trifle  less  afraid  of  the  cholera  than  I 
am  of  being  thought  afraid  of  it." 

But  there  flashed  through  his  mind  the  words  of 
Andreas  Romanovitch,  at  the  start  of  the  fox-hunt 
in  the  Roman  Campagna:  "Many  men  sacrifice 
themselves  before  the  altar  of  public  opinion.  ..." 

He  recalled  that  vivid  winter  day — the  rolling, 
golden  landscape,  the  brilliant  cavalcade,  the  sudden 
rush  of  hounds  and  horses,  Ghirlaine  amid  the  scud- 
ding uniforms,  her  slim,  black-clad  figure  swaying 
to  the  rhythm  of  the  gallop.  .  .  .  Then  the  herds- 
man's shelter,  the  bench  before  the  hut,  the  faint 
scent  of  leather  and  orris-root  that  came  to  him  from 
her.  .  .  .  His  return  to  the  city,  determined  more 
than  ever  to  possess  her,  despite  all  her  enmity.  .-  :*•  * 

And  that  determination  had  brought  them,  finally, 
to  this! 

Yet  he  would  not  have  gone  back.  He  would  not 
have  avoided  one  hour  of  bafflement  and  remorse. 
The  injuries  that  he  had  inflicted  on  her  hung  about 
his  neck  with  an  almost  insupportable  weight,  but  he 
could  not,  even  now,  have  brought  himself  to  lessen 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  379 

them,  if  in  lessening  them  the  memory  of  all  this 
bitter-sweet  intimacy  would  have  to  be  wiped  out. 

Nor,  in  fact,  could  he  conceive  of  the  possibility  of 
having  acted  otherwise.  The  most  unbelievable  of 
those  hours  had  for  him,  at  retrospection,  the  natural- 
ness of  absolute  necessity. 

"Padre,"  he  said,  aloud,  "I  begin  to  believe  hi 
destiny,  you  know." 

"That  is  well,  my  son,"  the  priest  answered, 
quietly.  "Always  remembering,  however,  that  des- 
tiny is  only  another  name  for  opportunity — that  the 
final  choice  invariably  remains  with  us." 

There  were  hours  when  the  epidemic,  so  to  speak, 
stood  still — when  crises  were  lacking,  and  the  work 
became  easier.  In  such  breathing-spells,  Sebastian 
would  climb  occasionally  to  the  western  headland,  for 
a  glimpse  of  the  villa,  and,  perhaps,  of  her. 

But  he  would  not  come  near  the  villa.  He  kept 
even  Annibale  at  a  distance,  while  repeating  his 
orders  for  the  regimen  of  the  household.  He  was 
determined  that  there  should  not  be  the  slightest 
contact  between  the  headland  and  the  village. 

Then,  when  he  had  finished  with  instructions: 

"AndtheSignura?" 

' '  A  CGusi-accusi — so-so. ' ' 

"She— talks  much?" 

"Not  much,  Signuri." 

"And  how  does  she  spend  her  time?" 

"Eh!  Looking  through  the  glasses,  usually. 
First  at  the  village,  then  at  the  sea.  At  the  sea,  when 
ships  are  in  sight." 


380  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Ah.  At  the  sea,  when  ships  are  in  sight.  .  .  . 
Very  well.  Arrividirchi,  Annibale." 

"  Arrividirchi,  Signuri,"  the  young  man  responded, 
sadly.  "And  the  Madonna  go  with  you,  as  we  pray 
she  may." 

Perhaps,  while  talking  so,  he  saw  her  for  a  moment, 
in  the  portico,  tall  and  straight  in  her  white  dress, 
gazing  down  at  him.  But  she  never  moved  while  he 
was  looking  at  her.  Yet,  if  he  turned  away  for  an 
instant,  she  was  gone. 

Descending  from  the  confines  of  that  pure,  inac- 
cessible place,  to  the  inferno  of  the  cholera  town,  he 
would  tell  himself: 

"What  a  waste  of  ingenuity,  for  theologians  to 
have  devised  a  hell  and  a  heaven  so  remote!" 

Those  days,  he  had  many  new  thoughts. 

She,  too.  .  .  . 

On  the  headland,  she  could  feel,  if  she  could  not 
see,  the  full  ghastliness  and  peril  of  the  drama  being 
played  below.  Cholera!  Her  imagination  painted 
scenes  worse,  almost,  than  reality.  She  pictured  the 
despair,  the  agonies  of  the  victims  suddenly  struck 
down,  the  grief  of  the  survivors,  overshadowed  by  an 
augmented  dread.  At  mid-day,  the  yellow  mist  that 
hung  round  the  village  seemed  like  the  emanation 
of  a  vast  hopelessness  and  anguish.  It  spread  along 
the  slopes.  It  lost  itself  amid  the  groves.  It  seemed 
to  be  creeping  upward  toward  the  heights.  She  was 
frightened,  as  if  it  contained  the  infection  of  its 
source.  And  yet,  staring  down  through  the  haze, 
she  felt  a  strange  impulse,  not  to  recoil,  but  to  de- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  381 

scend — to  throw  herself  into  the  midst  of  that 
disaster! 

Her  physical  safety,  her  inactivity,  shamed  her. 
Her  past  appeared  before  her  in  all  its  aimlessness. 
And  her  many  conventional  charities  seemed  like  a 
mockery,  now  brought  into  comparison  with  the 
charity  of  those  who,  down  there  in  the  village,  were 
braving  death  to  battle  for  the  lives  of  others.  All 
the  money  she  had  ever  given  through  benevolence, 
out  of  her  inexhaustible  store,  could  not  outweigh  one 
gesture  of  the  shapes  she  seemed  to  see  beside  the 
cholera  beds.  She  had  only  given  what  she  had  no 
right  to  give. 

She  remembered  Sebastian's  words  before  the 
temple.  "A  creature  who  had  always  taken  every- 
thing, and  really  returned  nothing."  Again  the 
speech  sounded  in  her  ears:  "You  and  I — a  couple 
of  parasites  together!  ..." 

But  to-day  he  was  paying  back  his  debt.  To-day, 
at  least  in  this,  he  was  her  superior! 

All  her  conventional  instincts  revolted  against 
such  thoughts. 

"How  should  it  be  otherwise!  This  is  man's 
work.  Such  horrors  for  me?  Such  creatures,  in 
their  most  abject  states?" 

She  was  expressing  the  conviction  not  only  of  the 
women  of  her  kind,  but  of  the  men  as  well — that  her 
whole  province  should  be  above  all  contact  with 
material  degradation,  that  any  such  contact  would 
somehow  have  depreciated  her  value.  .  .  .  Yet  sup- 
pose that,  instead  of  stooping  to  such  contact,  one 
had  to  rise! 


382  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Presently,  however: 

"Why  should  I  have  this  insane  impulse?  My 
life  has  been  prepared  for  other  things!" 

A  voice  within  her  seemed  to  ask: 

"For  what?" 

To  that  challenge,  she  flung  back,  as  it  were  from 
her  innermost  defences: 

"If  for  nothing  else,  at  least  for  the  assurance  of  a 
superior  race!" 

But  the  voice  within  replied: 

"  What  sort  of  superiority?  To  your  children  what 
legacy  of  impulse  will  you  offer?  .  .  ." 

She  fled  to  the  companionship  of  Fannia.  Still, 
into  their  dismal,  halting  conversations  there  in- 
truded the  shadow  of  reproach.  This  poor  woman, 
with  her  ragged  dress  and  bare  feet,  her  eagerness 
for  humble  service,  her  dumb  devotion,  was  one  of 
them! 

At  times  she  questioned  Fannia,  to  find  out  if  these 
urgencies  were  unique. 

"How  do  you  feel,  when  you  think  that  down  there 
people  are  dying?" 

"How  should  I  feel,  Signura!  Glad  it's  not  usl 
Afraid  for  the  Signuri.  Yes,  and  for  my  father 
too.  .  .  ." 

"If  you  knew  your  father  had  caught  it,  would 
you  go  down?" 

"Go  down!  Holy  Virgin!  One's  baby,  I  take 
it,  is  worth  more  than  one's  father.  You  may  not 
know  that,  Signura.  But  you  will,  when  you  have 
one." 

Ghirlaine  took  the  sleeping  infant  from  Fannia's 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  383 

arms.  Holding  him  against  her  firm  bosom,  she 
touched  the  little  face,  and  uncurled  the  tiny  fingers. 
For  her,  remembering  those  first  hours  of  his,  and  her 
share  in  them,  there  was  pride  in  the  feeling  that  in 
some  way  he  belonged  also  to  her.  When  she  saw 
him  at  Fannia's  breast,  she  envied  the  mother  her 
emotions.  She  realized  that  then  the  peasant- 
woman  was  complete,  while  she,  for  all  her  individu- 
ality and  beauty,  was  not.  And  at  such  moments 
she  longed  for  that  completeness,  with  an  intensity 
she  had  never  known  up  there,  with  a  fervor  that 
had  needed,  as  it  seemed,  the  fierce  influences  of 
nature,  on  this  Isle  of  Life,  to  develop  so  fully. 

She  fell  to  thinking  of  Fannia's  romance. 

Here  its  lawlessness  did  not  seem  reprehensible. 
The  spontaneity  of  that  revolt  against  all  obstacles, 
the  supreme  defiance  of  tradition  hereabouts,  had 
the  nobility  of  Nature.  The  laws  of  men  fell  short 
of  this  high  headland.  .  .  . 

This  headland,  apart  from  all  the  world!  Was  its 
isolation  ever  going  to  end? 

Where  was  Sangallo?  Why  had  he  not  yet  fol- 
lowed that  strange  letter  of  his?  This  suspense, 
added  to  the  suspense  of  all  the  rest! 

Sometimes,  from  the  northern  ridge,  she  descried 
on  the  ambiguous  horizon  a  faint  thread  of  smoke. 
Her  heart  leaped  to  her  throat.  She  turned  faint. 
They  were  coming? 

Beyond  the  cataclysm  of  their  arrival,  her  mind 
could  picture  nothing. 

But  the  thread  of  smoke  gradually  died  away. 


384  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

She  returned  to  the  villa,  all  unnerved,  exhausted — 
but  like  a  person  reprieved  from  a  crisis  too  tre- 
mendous to  be  faced. 

Frequently,  amid  the  blossom-covered  labyrinths 
behind  the  house,  she  came  on  Annibale.  The  young 
man  would  snatch  off  his  torn  hat  with  the  gesture  of 
a  cavalier.  If  she  was  going  to  the  northern  side,  he 
would  accompany  her.  He,  too,  was  interested  in 
distant  smoke. 

The  Camorristi  still  obsessed  him.  He  was  con- 
vinced that  more  would  come.  He  explained  to  her 
that  it  was  not  like  them  to  accept  defeat.  The 
vendetta  was  their  dearest  point  of  honor. 

Nodding  solemnly,  he  would  repeat: 

"They  will  surely  send  again,  Signura,  when  the 
others  fail  to  return.  They  will  send  and  send,  till 
Turrigianti  swarms  with  them.  But  next  time,  I 
think,  they'll  send  some  one  better  than  the  jugglers, 
as  the  jugglers  were  better  than  Nino.  They  will 
honor  us  ever  with  a  better  grade  of  talent.  Eh, 
after  all,  a  compliment,  in  its  way?" 

On  which,  straightening  himself,  and  smiling  ami- 
ably, he  would  add: 

"But  don't  disturb  yourself  on  that  account,  Si- 
gnura !  My  master  will  know  how  to  attend  to  them, 
as  I  shall  know  how  to  help  him.  There  is  one,  with 
your  leave,  who  was  hardly  meant  to  be  killed  by 
ordinary  people!  Or,  in  my  private  opinion,  by  the 
cholera!  Every  night  I  say  my  prayer  for  him  to 
Our  Lady  and  the  Blessed  Saints,  that  he  mayn't  be 
struck  down.  Yet  when  I  see  him  again,  walking 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  385 

upright,  I  feel  as  if  I  might  better  have  saved  my 
breath  to  cool  my  macaroni.  To  myself  I  say, '  The 
cholera!  Mai  Jcchiu!  What  is  that  to  him?'  For, 
without  compliments,  he  has  that  look,  you  know! 
One  can't  imagine  him  lying  helpless  on  a  bed,  or 
going  to  his  own  funeral!" 

But  Ghirlaine,  for  her  part,  never  glimpsed  Se- 
bastian on  the  hillside  without  a  sudden  tenseness, 
an  instant  of  giddy  relaxation,  and  the  thought, 
"Again?"  That  he  was  still  afoot,  after  all  those 
days  of  horror,  seemed  to  her  miraculous. 

When  he  looked  up  toward  her,  over  the  cactus- 
hedges,  she  imagined  his  face  set  hi  a  bitter  smile. 
She  fancied  that  he  was  grimly  considering  the  petti- 
ness of  his  past  infatuation,  in  comparison  with  his 
present  business.  He  wore  the  old  suit  of  frieze,  the 
old  wooden-soled  shoes,  the  shapeless  felt  hat,  of  the 
first  days.  His  face  was  deeply  bronzed.  He  had 
lost  weight.  He  seemed  like  a  stranger. 

One  morning  she  noticed  that  he  had  discarded  his 
bandages  and  sling.  In  talking  to  Annibale,  he  made 
gestures  with  his  left  arm.  It  seemed  as  well  as  ever. 

She  watched  him  all  the  way  down  the  hill-path, 
through  the  binoculars.  He  moved  like  a  man  very 
tired. 

Intently,  she  followed  his  progress  along  the  es- 
planade. A  fat  fellow  came  out  of  the  cafe,  and  ges- 
ticulated. From  the  eastern  promontory,  two  young 
men  ran  down  to  join  them.  The  four  turned  to  look 
out  to  sea. 

The  steam-boat  was  rounding  the  headland. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  steam-boat  stood  off  the  beach.  The  two 
young  men  rowed  Sebastian  and  the  Syndic  out  to  it. 
From  them  the  captain  learned  of  the  cholera  in 
Torregiante. 

Then  the  fishing-boat,  which  had  gone  for  help, 
had  not  reached  Trapani? 

"  Signuri,  at  Trapani  we've  seen  no  one  from  here," 
the  captain  answered  gravely,  from  the  rail. 

"But  it's  impossible!    They  left  three  days  ago!'' 

"Then  they've  gone  on  to  Palermo.  There's  some 
cholera  at  Palermo.  There  must  be  government  doc- 
tors there.  No  doubt  a  passing  sail-boat  told  them 
so." 

"Fools!  They  could  have  telegraphed  from  Tra- 
pani, and  saved  two  days!" 

"Eh,  to  be  sure!  But  it  takes  brains  to  think. 
However,  I'll  send  that  telegram  for  you,  on  my 
return." 

The  captain  shouted  toward  the  engine-room: 

"Let  us  go!" 

And,  to  the  occupants  of  the  rowing-boat: 

"I'm  off.  This  place  is  infected.  If  I  have  com- 
munication with  it,  I  shall  be  quarantined  from 
Trapani." 

The  steamer  was  moving.  But  a  man  who  had 

386 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  387 

been  leaning  over  the  rail  picked  up  a  valise  and 
made  for  the  ladder.  The  captain  remonstrated 
violently: 

"You  heard  what  they  said?  Do  you  want  to 
catch  it,  too?" 

"I  don't  catch  things  easily,"  the  stranger  re- 
sponded, with  a  pleasant  smile.  And  descending  the 
ladder,  he  motioned  politely  to  the  rowers.  They 
took  him  aboard.  He  sat  down  beside  Sebastian 
with  an  apology,  and  a  winning  gesture. 

He  was  perhaps  forty  years  old,  tall,  swarthy,  very- 
ugly,  yet  with  a  certain  attractiveness  of  features — 
that  expression  which  the  Italians  call  simpatica. 
He  looked  calm,  strong,  accustomed  to  authority. 
He  was  fastidiously  dressed:  his  blue  flannel  suit,  silk 
shirt,  flowing  tie  of  foulard,  yellow  shoes,  and  panama 
hat,  were  the  last  cry  of  Neapolitan  fashion.  On  his 
long  fingers  glittered  some  expensive  rings,  the  jew- 
els principally  emeralds,  sapphires,  and  rubies.  His 
magnificence  awed  the  islanders.  To  Sebastian,  his 
face  was  vaguely  familiar. 

They  discussed  the  cholera.  Sebastian  informed 
him,  indifferently: 

"The  whole  place  is  a  pest-house.  Those  of  us 
who  aren't  down  with  it  are  practically  dehumanized. 
I  doubt  you'll  find  your  visit  either  profitable  or 
pleasant?" 

The  stranger  returned,  genially: 

"It  isn't  a  visit  of  pleasure  anyway,  Signore.  I 
come  to  Torregiante  to  say  and  hear  a  lot  of  disagree- 
able things,  I  fear.  ...  In  fact,  I've  come  to  visit 


388  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

my  brother,  and  persuade  him  that  he's  making  a 
fool  of  himself." 

"Your  brother!"  ejaculated  the  Syndic,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Exactly.  My  brother.  Whom  you  probably  call 
the  hermit." 

The  eyes  of  the  Syndic  and  the  boatmen  turned 
toward  the  little  hut  of  bowlders,  thatched  with 
prickly-pear  leaves,  high  on  the  eastern  ridge — then 
fixed  themselves  again  on  the  jewelry  and  fine  clothes 
of  this  astounding  individual.  But  Sebastian  did 
not  cease  to  watch  the  stranger's  face.  Where  had 
he  seen  it  before? 

Suddenly,  he  recalled  an  afternoon  at  Naples,  in 
the  Villa  Nazionale.  Dusk  was  falling:  along  the 
wooded  promenade  beside  the  sea  long  chains  of  clear 
white  lights  were  springing  forth.  The  roadways 
were  full  of  the  carriages  of  the  aristocrazia.  Through 
this  traffic  he,  in  the  shadowy  depths  of  a  big  limou- 
sine, was  speeding  out  toward  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio, 
for  a  gay  dinner-party.  Beside  him  sat  a  pretty 
woman  who  knew  every  one,  but  whom,  in  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  country,  ostensibly  nobody  would  have  known. 
And  all  at  once  she  had  shrunk  back,  pressed  his 
hand,  and  cautiously  designated  a  tall  horseman,  ap- 
proaching on  the  bridle-path.  "Ecco,  caro  miol  It 
is  Angielo  Cristofores,  one  of  the  ten  chiefs  of  the 
Camorra." 

And  at  this  moment,  in  the  rowing-boat  before 
Torregiante,  Angielo  Cristofores  was  offering  him  a 
cigarette  from  a  gold  case  set  with  rubies. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  389 

Sebastian  smiled  inwardly. 

"These  cigarettes  are  excellent." 

"  So  glad,  Signore." 

And  the  stranger  began  to  talk,  with  engaging 
frankness,  about  "his  brother's  foolishness." 

He  had  been  an  odd  fish  from  the  first,  that 
brother!  He  had  been  offered  repeated  opportuni- 
ties to  enter  a  highly  profitable  business.  The  young 
simpleton  had  refused:  his  leanings  were  rather  to- 
ward the  church.  Though  where  he  had  got  that 
idea,  Heaven  only  knew! 

"That  is,  most  of  his  leanings  were  hi  that  direc- 
tion. There  were  a  few  that  held  him  back.  Or 
rather,  seemed  to.  In  the  end,  they  pushed  him 
into  this  condition.  ..." 

In  short,  he  had  become  infatuated  with  a  woman 
who  had  treated  him  badly.  His  illusions  destroyed, 
he  had  renounced  the  world.  He  had,  indeed,  re- 
nounced the  world  "excessively."  He  had  "become 
a  recluse,  hi  the  barest,  most  remote,  God-forsaken 
spot  that  he  could  find. 

"And  all  that,  Signore,  for  a  woman  that  you  or  I 
would  be  tempted  to  beat  half  to  death  and  throw 
into  the  street.  A  foolish  baby-face!  A  voice,  to 
be  sure — but  who  can't  shake  out  a  song  or  two? 
Perhaps  you've  heard  of  her,  however.  She's  wrig- 
gled upward,  since  then,  kicking  away  the  men  she 
climbed  over,  one  by  one.  I  mean  Fiammetta 
Innocenti.  You  know  her,  possibly?" 

"I've  heard  her  sing,  somewhere  or  other." 

The  rowing-boat  grounded  on  the  beach. 


390  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Not  much,  eh?  But  enough  to  turn  a  certain 
style  of  man  into  a  donkey.  In  this  case,  let's  hope 
not  permanently.  That's  what  I'm  here  to  find 
out." 

The  stranger  leaped  out  upon  the  sand.  He  was 
evidently  muscular  and  agile,  as  well  as  clever.  "  But 
perhaps,"  thought  Sebastian,  "it  really  is  his  brother. 
That  would  account  for  his  coming  all  this  way  him- 
self. Two  birds  with  one  stone!" 

Aloud,  he  said: 

"I  wish  you  all  success  in  your  visit,  Signore." 

" So  kind  of  you!" 

"There's  the  place,  on  the  ridge.  Say  fifteen 
minutes'  climb.  For  accommodations,  I'm  sure  the 
Syndic  can  put  you  up  somewhere.  Indeed,  his 
house  is  the  only  safe  one  now.  And  we  can't  let 
anything  happen  to  you  in  Torregiante." 

"A  thousand  thanks!" 

The  stranger  doffed  his  panama  hat,  made  a  sweep- 
ing bow,  and  set  off,  skirting  the  village,  toward  the 
uplands.  Sebastian,  gazing  after  him,  reflected: 

"Real  talent  this  time,  I  should  say.  They  begin 
to  flatter  me!" 

But  in  the  hours  that  followed  he  had  small  oppor- 
tunity to  think  of  this  new  menace. 

The  epidemic  was  rising  to  its  climax.  In  the 
moist  heat,  with  the  sea  undisturbed  by  any  breeze, 
the  noxiousness  of  the  water-front  had  developed 
frightfully.  And  in  the  infected  warrens  of  the  vil- 
lage, from  behind  the  barred  doors,  on  the  terraces 
screened  with  poles,  driftwood,  and  scrub,  there 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  391 

issued  from  time  to  time  fresh  outbursts,  of  shrieks 
and  lamentations,  that  signalled  another  seizure  or 
another  death. 

Old  Ilario  was  down.  They  carried  him  on  a 
shutter,  glaring  like  a  trapped  wolf,  to  the  parish- 
house. 

The  school-master,  on  sighting  the  steamer,  had 
scrambled  down  from  his  eyry,  determined  to  escape. 
But  at  the  door,  he  had  fallen  with  a  groan.  There 
they  found  him,  his  long,  bony  legs  spread  out  on  the 
threshold,  his  head  against  the  second  step,  and  in 
his  eyes  blank  fright.  They  put  him  on  the  pallet 
beside  old  Ilario's,  across  from  the  door  of  the 
kitchen,  where  Maria,  puffing,  wheezing,  calling  on 
all  manner  of  saints,  was  perpetually  sterilizing 
sheets  and  blankets. 

The  Marshal  of  carabineers,  however,  was  better. 
That  big,  ruddy  man,  with  the  blonde  mustache  and 
girlish  skin,  was  a  shadow  of  his  former  self,  but  to- 
day almost  cheerful.  When  Sebastian  approached 
his  bed,  his  lips  parted  in  a  languid  smile.  In  a  voice 
affected  by  aphonia: 

"How  strange,  Signore!  .  .  .  You  have  become 
the  law  in  Torregiante." 

It  was  true.  Since  Don  Vigilio  had  collapsed  from 
weariness,  Sebastian  had  become  the  law  in  Torre- 
giante! 

He  now  directed  everything,  was  everywhere, 
learned  by  mistakes,  and  sometimes  evolved  a  tri- 
umph from  defeat.  A  new  burst  of  energy  had  fol- 
lowed his  first  lassitude.  Now  he  was  moved  by  that 


392  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

reserve  of  strength  which  the  human  organism  is  not 
conscious  of,  till  absolute  necessity  for  its  use  arises. 
He  exulted  in  his  hitherto  unguessed  capacity  for 
labor  and  for  use. 

The  horrors  of  this  conflict  left  him  cold.  He  felt 
no  active  sympathy  either  with  the  suffering  or  the 
grief.  To  him  it  was  just  a  battle,  against  a  force 
more  subtle  and  ruthless  than  himself.  He  had  al- 
ways been  a  good  fighter,  and  an  ardent  gambler. 
And  now  he  was  fighting  and  gambling  with  the 
greatest  adversary  he  had  ever  known.  He  got  a 
certain  grim  enjoyment  from  this  war,  from  his  re- 
sponsibility, and  from  his  slow  winning  of  authority. 

For  his  authority  was  growing.  The  dullest-wit- 
ted,  the  most  antagonistic,  could  not  help  finally  per- 
ceiving his  sincerity.  When  he  entered  a  house,  the 
women  no  longer  sprang  at  him.  The  patients,  on 
their  way  to  the  hospital,  forbore  to  curse  him. 
Once,  a  distracted  wife,  following  the  stretcher,  her 
cheeks  scarred,  like  an  Oriental  mourner's,  with  long 
scratches  from  her  fingers,  cried  out: 

"Save  my  man,  then,  if  you  can!" 

For  they  knew  that  he  had  saved  some. 

That  evening,  as  the  sun  was  setting  in  a  great 
whorl  of  scarlet  and  amethystine  fire,  he  walked  out 
on  the  esplanade,  looked  up  at  the  windows  and  the 
loggias,  and  shouted: 

"People  of  Turrigianti,  you've  had  a  few  days, 
now,  of  breaking  the  laws  I  set  for  you.  All  this 
time  you've  stood  off  from  me;  and  you  have  paid 
the  price.  But  the  laws  I  made  will  still  save  the 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  393 

rest  of  you.  Once  more  you  have  the  same  choice — 
obedience  and  life,  disobedience  and  death." 

As  he  departed,  he  left  behind  him  silence  instead 
of  howls. 

At  the  door  of  the  church,  he  came  on  Don  Vigilio, 
afoot  again — an  old  wraith  that  tottered  forward 
with  the  words: 

"My  son,  my  son,  still  walking  and  working!  Do 
you  not  see  that  it's  God's  miracle?" 

"Saint  Giosue's  camphor  is  ended,"  replied  Se- 
bastian, absent-mindedly. 

The  priest's  face  quivered.    He  stammered: 

"How  tired  you  must  be!" 

"Not  so  much  as  you'd  think." 

"Will  you  sleep?" 

Sebastian  smiled. 

"When  you  were  tired,  Padre,  the  Mass  refreshed 
you.  When  I  am  tired,  I  also  have  my  inspiration." 

He  left  the  promontory,  passed  through  the  vil- 
lage, and  ascended  the  western  headland.  The  villa 
shone  golden  in  the  sunset. 

Up  there  the  air  was  pure;  sweet  flowers  were 
blooming  thick;  a  silence,  as  of  a  peace  glimpsed  only 
in  dreams,  enveloped  everything.  The  heights,  as  if 
floating  off  amid  a  radiant  mist  toward  heaven, 
seemed  already  to  be  bearing  her  away  from  him 
forever.  He  knew  now  the  full  value  of  those  hours 
spent  on  the  headland,  when,  for  all  her  hatred,  and 
for  all  his  cruelty  born  of  remorse,  he  had  at  least 
been  near  her.  But  even  that  time  was  ended  now. 
And  this  separation  was  a  foretaste  of  the  eternal 
separation  that  was  coming. 


394  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

He  turned  away.  Through  the  woods  he  climbed 
to  the  ruined  temple  on  the  northern  ridge,  entered 
the  narrow  door,  and  struck  a  match.  The  lizards 
scuttled  into  corners.  But  the  voices  of  the  Old 
Ones  were  hushed  this  evening.  Silence  enwrapped 
him,  as  he  contemplated  the  faint,  archaic  inscrip- 
tion high  on  the  wall  behind  the  little  altar. 

To  reach  my  altar,  that  part  of  you  which  you  have  loved  best 
must  be  destroyed. 

He  went  out.  Lost  in  thought,  he  took  the  cliff- 
path  eastward.  He  passed  the  platform  where  the 
Camorristi  had  attacked  him.  And  he  remembered 
Angielo  Cristofores. 

Violence!  Always  violence  and  the  threat  of  it! 
Old  scenes  rose  up  before  him:  dazzling  snow-peaks 
with  powder-smoke  drifting  over  them;  a  green  lawn 
at  sunrise,  and  a  young  man  stretched  on  it,  dying 
from  a  sword-thrust:  burning  sands,  and  the  rush 
of  mounted  Bedouins  the  tomb  of  whose  Marabout 
he  had  profaned:  a  strip  of  lake-shore,  the  crack  of 
duelling-pistols,  a  cluster  of  men  hi  top-hats,  an- 
other shape  that  would  never  stir  again.  .  .  .  Vio- 
lence! Always  recoiling! 

At  the  end  of  the  path,  on  the  ridge  above  the 
village,  he  looked  toward  the  hermit's  hut. 

Some  distance  below  it,  on  the  rocky  slope,  two 
men  were  talking  together.  One  was  the  new-comer 
to  Torregiante.  The  other  wore  a  long  brown  robe. 
The  hermit. 

Their  discussion  ended  abruptly.     The  stranger 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  395 

threw  up  his  hand  in  a  violent  gesture  such  as  ac- 
companies an  Italian's  imprecation,  and  descended 
the  hillside  to  the  village.  The  hermit  stood  motion- 
less, watching  him.  At  last,  his  head  bent,  he  began 
to  walk  slowly  in  Sebastian's  direction.  He  entered 
the  groves. 

They  met  in  the  clearing  where,  in  other  days, 
Little  Paganni  had  played  flute-music  to  his  goats. 

Sebastian  saw  an  emaciated  young  man,  burnt 
almost  black  by  the  sun,  with  hair  and  beard  brush- 
ing the  wide  collar  of  his  faded  gown.  His  lean 
waist  was  girt  with  cord.  On  his  long,  narrow  feet 
were  sandals.  Through  his  hands  slipped  the  big 
wooden  beads  of  a  coarse  rosary.  But  when  he  felt 
the  other's  gaze,  he  stopped  short,  and  raised  his 
head.  His  features  were  attractive  in  then:  regu- 
larity, but  marred  by  a  dejection  that  approached 
stupidity. 

Evidently  his  first  impulse  was  to  turn  away. 
But  with  an  obvious  effort,  he  stood  still,  bowed,  and 
examined  the  other  with  his  melancholy  eyes. 

In  this  countenance,  Sebastian  discerned  a  cer- 
tain resemblance  to  Angielo  Cristofores.  The  hermit 
was  nearly  handsome.  The  other  was  almost  gro- 
tesquely ugly.  Yet  both  showed  traces  of  the  same 
peculiar  charm  which,  in  this  case,  unhappiness,  and, 
in  the  other,  no  doubt,  association,  had  somewhat 
obscured.  And  Sebastian's  interest,  in  seeing  before 
him  one  more  man  whom  the  Innocenti  had  wrecked, 
was  superseded  by  a  larger  curiosity,  regarding  these 
strange  brothers. 


396  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

What  was  their  past — their  birth  and  education? 
The  forces  that  had  made  one  a  chief  of  the  Camorra 
had  turned  the  other,  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood, 
into  a  bead-telling  devotee.  Still,  in  the  beginning, 
must  they  not  have  been  very  like? 

And  the  conviction  came  to  him  that,  in  spite  of 
all  appearances,  they  were  identical,  even  to-day — 
and  that  he  was  identical  with  both  of  them.  In 
him,  too,  was  the  capacity  for  all  their  differing  emo- 
tions and  performances!  And,  for  an  instant,  he 
seemed  to  see  beyond  the  future  and  the  past,  to  find 
himself  a  creature  of  infinite  variety,  to  perceive 
himself,  in  retrospection  and  anticipation,  moved  by 
all  the  influences  that  had  ever  moved  humanity. 
In  that  moment,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  felt 
himself  to  be  part  of  an  immeasurable  whole,  which 
was  forever  struggling  to  be  separate,  and  individual, 
yet  never  could  accomplish  separation. 

That  effort  toward  separation!  It  was  that,  per- 
haps, which  caused  all  the  anguish  of  humanity?  .  .  . 
At  least,  had  it  not  been  the  cause  of  all  his 
anguish? 

But  this  moment  of  perception,  or  imagination, 
ended  as  swiftly  as  it  had  begun.  Nevertheless,  he 
remained  silent,  amazed  that  such  thoughts  had 
come  to  him. 

Finally,  smiling,  he  asked  the  brown-clad  man: 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"Of  what,  Signore,"  the  other  returned,  without 
surprise. 

"Are  we  related  also,  you  and  I?" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  397 

The  recluse  regarded  Sebastian  thoughtfully,  then 
responded: 

"But  why  not?    Since  we  have  one  Father." 

The  banality  of  this  reply  disappointed  Sebastian. 
He  had  expected  something  more  original,  from  so 
unusual  a  hermit.  He  tried  again: 

"But  our  performances — at  least  you  won't  find 
much  family  resemblance  between  them?" 

"Between  our  performances,  Signore?  Why  not? 
If  they  aren't  alike  at  this  moment,  they  have  been, 
and  they  will  be  again.  And  at  last  they  must  be, 
for  good  and  all.  Since  everything,  in  the  end,  must 
be  identical." 

This  was  slightly  better. 

11  Per  Bacco!    Universal  monotony,  eh?" 

"Why  not  say,  universal  harmony?" 

A  pause.  At  last,  Sebastian,  with  a  flicker  of  his 
old  maliciousness,  inquired: 

"You  haven't  always  had  these  ideas,  I  take  it?" 

"Perhaps  only  since  I've  been  here."  He  added, 
simply:  "I  think  God  has  told  them  to  me,  in  the 
silence." 

"Ah.    It's  in  the  silence  that  God  speaks?" 

"  God  speaks  everywhere,  at  all  tunes.  But  it's  in 
the  silence  that  one  hears  him." 

"Has  God  told  you  also,  by  any  chance,  that  your 
other  relatives,  the  villagers  down  yonder,  are  dying 
right  and  left  of  cholera?" 

"My  brother  has  just  told  me  that.  I  supposed 
that  something  had  happened.  They  used  to  bring 
up  food  occasionally  to  my  hut.  Though  that  wasn't 


398  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

necessary,  as  I  had  my  little  garden-patch.  Still, 
they  enjoyed  doing  it.  But  some  days  ago  they 
stopped.  However,  my  mind  was  otherwise  engaged. 
I  soon  forgot  to  miss  them." 

Sabastian  uttered  a  dry  laugh. 

"  On  my  word,  you  take  it  coolly  enough !  It's  not 
occurred  to  you,  I  presume,  to  wander  down  and 
lend  a  hand?" 

The  hermit  met  that  smile  with  composure. 

"  It  is  the  law  of  this  world  and  the  next,  Signore, 
that  every  man  must  try  to  save  himself."  His  lips 
contracted  painfully.  "And  before  dying  of  the 
cholera,  or  any  other  thing,  I  should  like  to  feel  that 
I  had  saved  myself." 

"But  I  should  have  thought  that  you,  at  least, 
were  all  settled  on  that  score!" 

The  recluse  turned  his  mournful  eyes  toward  the 
lower  slope,  where  Angielo  Cristofores  had  disap- 
peared. 

"Not  yet,  Signore." 

And  for  an  instant  his  face  was  the  field  of  two  in- 
tense desires  in  conflict,  the  old  rising  up  against  the 
new.  .  .  .  Sebastian,  while  descending  to  the  vil- 
lage, still  saw  that  look. 

Where  had  he  seen  it  before?  In  the  face  of  An- 
dreas Romanovitch?  No,  elsewhere  also.  .  .  .  More 
recently.  .  .  . 

In  a  mirror!  .  .  . 

On  the  esplanade,  he  met  the  Syndic,  and  de- 
manded : 

"Any thing  fresh?" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  399 

"Eh!  Certainly!  Another  house  infected.  One 
of  the  Paganni  brats  is  down.?' A  n 

"Which?" 

"The  Little  Paganni.  My  goatherd — sangui- 
nacciu!" 

Though  Sebastian  did  not  move,  the  Syndic  called 
out  sharply: 

"Hold  fast!    Are  you  ill  yourself,  Signuri?" 

He  shook  off  the  Syndic's  hand.  He  started  run- 
ning toward  a  dilapidated  hovel  in  the  last  alleyway, 
at  the  western  extremity  of  the  esplanade — Paganni's 
house. 

And  from  the  edge  of  the  hilltop,  Ghirlaine,  looking 
down  through  the  binoculars,  saw  him  disappear  into 
that  alley. 

She  could  guess  at  least  the  purport  of  the  fat 
islander's  message,  and  the  reason  for  Sebastian's 
haste.  A  new  case  had  developed.  He  had  gone  to 
the  rescue. 

And  she  wondered:  "Is  this  the  man  I  knew  up 
there,  in  that  other  world?"  But  perhaps  up  there 
— and  even  here — she  had  not  known  him? 

Twilight  drew  smoky  veils  across  the  hollows. 
The  village  roofs,  changing  slowly  from  rust-color  to 
rose,  floated  in  a  void  of  vaporous  black.  On  the 
eastern  promontory,  the  bell-tower  of  the  church 
soon  looked  like  a  charred  shaft  whose  conflagration 
was  dying  gradually  at  its  top.  But  the  heights  were 
still  aflame!  And  now  the  contrast  between  the  ex- 
tinguished lowlands  and  the  peaks  was  as  moving 
as  the  difference  between  death  and  life. 


400  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

The  light  faded  from  the  sky.  The  shadows  crept 
up  the  wooded  slopes.  Again  they  seemed  to  be 
reaching  out  for  her.  But  this  time  they  were  striv- 
ing to  bring  her  not  the  infection  of  the  village,  but 
something  else — a  mysterious  influence  with  which 
the  lowlands  had  impregnated  them? 

All  at  once,  she  felt  afraid.  Danger  was  in  those 
shadows!  She  drew  back.  She  was  on  the  point  of 
fleeing  to  the  house.  But,  as  she  turned,  she  was 
struck  motionless.  Close  below  her,  amid  the  dusky 
foliage,  stood  a  stranger. 

Tall,  dark-visaged,  amazing  hi  his  foppish  suit  of 
flannels,  he  removed  his  hat  with  a  flourish  that  made 
his  rings  flash  hi  the  expiring  light.  She  heard  a 
voice,  well  modulated,  excessively  polite,  almost  ca- 
ressing in  its  amiability : 

"Per  placer  e,  gentilissima  Signora " 

He  stopped,  regarded  her  face,  then  went  on  hi 
French: 

"  May  I  beg  you  to  tell  me  if  Monsieur  is  at  home?  " 

Her  heart  was  pounding  violently.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  this  might  be  an  emissary  of  San- 
gallo's.  If  he  had  been  that,  her  intuition  would  not 
have  filled  her  with  such  terror? 

For  everything  about  the  stranger  terrified  her. 
The  genial  smile  that  she  discerned  on  his  dim  face 
made  her  catch  her  breath.  Even  his  fastidious  at- 
tire sickened  her  with  an  unfathomable  dread. 

Where  was  Annibale?  She  remembered  that  An- 
nibale  had  climbed  down  the  northern  cliffs  to  draw 
his  nets. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  401 

Her  voice  uttered  the  words: 

"His  servant  is  close  by,  in  the  house,  Monsieur, 
if  you  wish  to  send  him  a  message." 

The  stranger  smiled  more  amiably  than  before. 
She  was  sure  that  he  knew  not  only  of  Sebastian's 
absence,  but  also  of  Annibale's. 

"Another  time,  Madame." 

His  glance  went  past  her,  took  in  the  villa,  re- 
turned to  fix  itself  on  her  face  and  figure.  His 
smile  became  rather  stiff.  He  did  not  move — but 
she  had  a  shock  as  if  he  had  laid  his  hands  upon  her. 

"Another  time,  Madame.  ..." 

His  voice  was  slightly  hoarse.  And  in  his  eyes 
appeared  and  disappeared  a  vivid  gleam,  of  mingled 
menace  and  cupidity  too  strong  to  be  concealed. 

He  bowed  deeply,  and  was  gone  without  a  sound. 

Annibale's  words  recurred  to  her:  "More  will 
come,  Signura.  They  will  send  and  send.  ..." 

She  found  herself  in  the  villa.  In  her  bedchamber, 
she  reached  out  of  the  window,  to  draw  the  shutters 
together.  But  she  paused,  to  gaze  down  once  more 
toward  the  village. 

Suddenly  she  snatched  up  a  scarf,  wrapped  it  round 
her  shoulders,  and  slipped  from  the  house.  On  the 
edge  of  the  hill,  she  wavered.  Then  with  a  distracted 
gesture  she  plunged  down  the  path.  The  blackness 
of  the  woods  engulfed  her. 

The  path  was  rough.  Roots  and  sharp  stones 
bruised  her  feet  through  the  thin  soles  of  her  slippers. 
Branches  and  brambles  tore  at  the  flimsy  gown  she 
wore,  and  whipped  across  her  face.  But  now  she  was 


402  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

running,  oblivious  to  pain,  with  only  the  one  thought : 
"I  must  be  first!" 

The  trees  thinned.  The  slope,  strewn  only  by 
pale  bowlders  now,  stretched  before  her  straight  to 
the  village.  She  sped  onward.  A  red  moon  was  ris- 
ing. She  saw  the  outlying  hovels,  strange  hi  that  un- 
natural radiance,  all  with  blind  windows,  still  as  the 
dwellings  of  the  dead. 

She  was  on  the  esplanade.  The  darkness,  the 
silence,  the  emptiness  of  that  once  busy  place  be- 
wildered her.  She  strove  to  remember  the  alleyway 
into  which  Sebastian  had  disappeared.  But  the  al- 
leyways all  seemed  alike.  And  from  each  of  them 
issued  the  same  pestilential  odors. 

"And  it's  been  in  such  a  place.  .  .  ." 

Two  men  were  approaching  through  the  shadows, 
walking  with  measured  steps,  carrying  between  them 
something  on  a  stretcher.  Behind  them  stumbled 
another,  two  mattocks  over  his  shoulder. 

With  a  gasp,  she  shrank  back  against  a  wall.  But, 
as  the  third  passed  her,  she  swayed  forward,  and 
caught  him  by  the  sleeve. 

"The  Signuri —    Where  is  the  Signuri " 

The  man  started  violently.  His  mattocks  clat- 
tered on  the  stones.  He  jumped  back,  and  crossed 
himself. 

Then  the  lantern  of  a  street-shrine  revealed  to  him 
that  this  wild-eyed  being,  in  her  slim  whiteness,  with 
the  glittering  veil  and  flowing  golden  hair,  was  not 
the  Angel  of  Death.  His  face  darkened  with  shame. 
He  snatched  up  the  mattocks.  In  harsh  tones : 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  403 

"Eccul" 

He  pointed  behind  her. 

"Paganni's  house.    The  second  door." 

She  entered  the  alley. 

Stifling,  noisome,  the  very  air  of  it  seemed  to  her 
impregnated  with  mortality.  "I  shall  die  of  this," 
she  told  herself.  "I  am  going  toward  death!"  In 
the  gloom,  the  two  men  and  their  burden  still  hov- 
ered before  her  eyes,  an  appalling  vision.  She  had  a 
feeling  that  they  had  not  gone  on — that  they  were 
waiting,  at  the  mouth  of  this  pit,  for  her  also. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  door-latch.  But  there 
was  still  time  to  go  back.  .  .  . 

The  door,  as  if  of  its  own  accord,  swung  open.  A 
stream  of  candle-light  gushed  out,  enveloped  her, 
and  drew  her  forward. 

She  saw  a  room  of  indescribable  squalor.  In  a  cor- 
ner, savage,  grief-stricken  faces.  A  wrecked  bed- 
stead, and  on  the  pillow  a  little  thin  face  with  fixed 
eyes  and  open  mouth.  By  the  bed,  Sebastian.  The 
expression  he  wore  bewildered  her.  Was  it  really  he? 

He  looked  up  and  saw  her.  Staring,  perfectly  pal- 
lid, he  rose  slowly  to  his  feet. 

"You!" 

Leaning  against  the  door: 

"The  Camorristi  again.  .  .  .  Another.  ..  .  ." 

But  everything  was  swimming  in  a  mist. 


CHAPTER  XXH 

Ghirlaine  found  herself  sitting  on  a  broken  stool 
beside  the  door.  Before  her  stood  Sebastian,  his 
figure  half  blotting  out  the  squalid  little  room — the 
bed  on  which  the  sick  child  lay  motionless,  the  corners 
encumbered  with  fishing-nets  and  oars,  the  inner 
doorway,  framing  the  uncouth,  startled  faces  of  the 
Paganni  family.  His  bulk  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
conceal  that  scene  from  her. 

"You  must  get  out  of  here.  Everything  in  this 
place  is  dangerous.  As  for  me " 

A  caricature  of  his  old  sardonic  smile  appeared. 

"As  for  me,  I've  never  been  a  more  impossible 
associate  than  I  am  at  present." 

She  did  not  move.  He  went  on,  still  calm  exter- 
nally, but  with  a  sort  of  smothered  exasperation: 

"What  are  you  here  for?  On  the  hill  you  were 
safe — you  might  have  been  a  thousand  miles  away 
from  any  cholera.  You  must  be  mad!" 

She  returned  weakly: 

"A  man  came  to  the  villa.    A  stranger." 

Sebastian  made  an  angry  gesture. 

"I  know.  The  new  Camorrista.  But  he's  after 
me,  not  you." 

She  remembered  vividly  that  visitor's  last  look. 
She  knew  that  whatever  might  have  been  his  first 

404 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  405 

intentions,  now,  since  he  had  seen  her,  he  was  after 
her  as  well.  But  was  it  that  which  had  brought  her 
down  into  the  cholera?  Sebastian's  retort  was  like 
a  blow  to  her. 

She  asked  herself,  "What  am  I  here  for,  indeed!" 
She  was  ready  to  sink  into  the  ground  with  shame. 
But  with  an  effort  she  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face. 
And,  finally,  that  he  should  never  dream  the  truth, 
she  uttered: 

"There  was  something  about  him  that  terrified  me. 
I  felt  myself  in  danger.  And  Annibale  was  down  the 
cliffs.  .  .  ." 

He  gave  her  a  long  stare.  His  cheeks  grew  darker, 
his  eyeballs  were  suffused  with  blood. 

"So,  that's  it,  eh?" 

He  glanced  out  toward  the  alley.  He  made 
a  movement,  perhaps  involuntary,  as  if  to  leave 
the  house.  But  he  recovered  himself,  and  turned 
quickly  to  the  bed. 

There  had  reached  him  from  the  bed  a  strange, 
thin  gasp. 

Under  the  ragged  coverlid,  the  child's  chest  was 
heaving.  The  little  mouth  was  wider  open,  reaching 
for  more  air.  A  fresh  paroxysm  was  beginning. 

In  Sicilian,  to  the  watchers  in  the  doorway: 

"Hot  blankets!  Move  sharp!  You,  Paganni, 
lend  a  hand  here.  Pass  me  that  bottle." 

The  mother,  a  woman  of  forty,  already  heavily 
wrinkled,  her  coarse  black  hair  streaming  down  about 
her  haggard  cheeks,  disappeared  with  a  sharp  cry 
into  the  adjoining  room.  The  father,  his  long,  Ara- 


406  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

bian  features  alive  for  once,  sprang  to  the  bedside. 
In  the  doorway,  little  Giacinta,  clinging  to  the  jamb, 
began  to  wail  afresh,  while,  in  the  other  room,  to  a 
tremendous  clatter  of  pots,  a  baby  set  up  its  howl. 

Sebastian  ejaculated: 

"Body  of  God,  Paganni,  are  those  children  still 
here?  Two  hours  ago  I  told  you  to  take  them  to  the 
Syndic.  You  might  as  well  cut  their  throats  and 
have  done!" 

Big  Paganni  raised  his  head.  His  features  stiff- 
ened. His  eyes  showed  the  dumb  resignation  of  a 
beast. 

"  What  difference?  In  this  house  we're  all  as  good 
as  dead,  already." 

The  mother  appeared  in  the  doorway  with  steam- 
ing blankets.  Sebastian  snatched  them  from  her 
arms. 

The  coverlid  was  whipped  back.  One  saw  for  an 
instant  the  small,  blotched  body,  rigid,  but  shaken 
by  tremors.  Then,  swiftly,  with  the  deftness  of 
much  practice,  Sebastian  swathed  the  little  shape 
from  chin  to  feet  in  the  hot  bedclothes.  Only  the 
face  remained  uncovered — the  pitiable  childish  face, 
with  temples  sunken,  with  nose  so  sharpened  as  to 
give  an  uncanny  impression  of  maturity,  with  eyes 
quite  motionless,  oblivious  to  all  about  them. 

But  Sebastian,  his  hands  working  rapidly,  was 
muttering  to  himself: 

"This  devilish  fixity  of  the  pupils!  But  no  com- 
plete coma,  yet,  at  least." 

He  fumbled  amid  the  blankets,  felt  the  boy's  feet 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  407 

and  hands,  touched  the  tongue,  emptied  a  spoonful 
of  lemon-water  into  the  open  mouth. 

"However,  if  this  reaction  is  irregular,  too.  .  .  ." 

His  fingers  on  Little'Paganni's  pulse,  he  looked  up 
absent-mindedly.  His  eyes  encountered  Ghirlaine's. 
And  she  realized  that  she  had  been  forgotten. 

Across  the  bed,  in  the  hush  of  that  perilous  and 
wretched  room,  there  took  place  a  swift  crossing  of 
looks  and  words — a  duel  perhaps  more  pregnant  than 
all  the  rest: 

"Why  are  you  still  here?" 

"Because  I'm  afraid  to  go." 

"You  had  courage  enough  to  come." 

"Perhaps.     But  not  to  go  back.  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  understand  the  danger  you're  running 
here?"  " 

"I  think  so.     I  prefer  it  to  the  other.  .  .  ." 

"You  mean  the  Camorrista?" 

"  Of  course " 

She  smiled,  as  grown  persons  smile  at  children 
who  have  no  means  of  grasping  certain  thoughts. 

He  said: 

"As  soon  as  I  can,  I'll  get  a  trustworthy  man  to 
take  you  home." 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  White-clad,  the  shining  scarf 
falling  from  her  shoulders,  her  hair  flashing  in  the 
candle-light,  she  seemed  like  a  supernatural  visitor 
to  this  hovel  of  despair.  With  a  slow,  resolute  move- 
ment of  her  pure  body,  she  advanced,  and  stood  be- 
side the  cholera-bed. 

Looking  down  at  the  small  face  between  them  on 


408  THE   ISLE   OF  LIFE 

the  pillow,  she  put  out  her  hand — the  most  exquisite 
hand  that  he  had  ever  seen — and  laid  it  softly  on 
Little  Paganni's  brow. 

"You  must  tell  me  what  to  do.  I  am  so  ignorant 
of  suffering,  and  its  relief." 

She  stared  round  her  at  the  room. 

"Indeed,  of  everything.  ..." 

The  slightest  flush  stained  her  throat.  She  con- 
cluded: 

"But  now  I  shall  begin  to  learn." 

Once  again,  with  set  jaws,  he  began  to  count  the 
patient's  pulse.  \Vhen  he  had  finished,  harshly: 

"I  shall  want  more  hot  blankets  at  once.  Agata, 
take  the  Signura  with  you.  She  is  going  to  help  us 
make  your  little  fellow  well  again." 

The  mother  peered  up  into  Ghirlaine's  face. 
Her  eyes  shone  with  hope.  She  whispered : 

"Ai!  If  it  is  not  the  Madonna,  then  the  Madonna 
has  sent  her!" 

And  backing  before  that  shining  stranger,  as  if 
before  a  vision,  she  led  the  way  into  the  other  room. 
Sebastian  turned  again  to  Little  Paganni.  And  the 
struggle  recommenced. 

Through  it  all  she  moved  like  one  in  a  dream, 
though  quick  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  his  orders,  and 
to  fulfil  them.  She  gazed  on  the  working  of  the  vast, 
apparently  malignant  force  that  strove  against  them 
— on  its  progress,  its  momentary  bafflement,  its  ter- 
rible persistence.  Such  physical  ravagement  she  had 
never  before  imagined.  This  frail  little  creature,  so 
helpless,  seemed  given  over,  in  his  every  fibre,  as  a 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  409 

prey  to  death.  And  his  defence,  despite  its  ardor, 
how  primitive,  how  inadequate  in  its  instruments! 
She  would  have  been  utterly  hopeless,  but  for  Se- 
bastian's face — the  face  of  a  man  who  will  not  own 
defeat. 

But  to-night  Sebastian  was  not  fighting  for  the 
mere  sake  of  winning.  He  was  fighting  for  the  life  of 
a  child  whose  beauty  and  naturalness  had  touched 
his  heart,  who  had  been  the  first  to  wake  in  him  the 
instinct  of  self -perpetuation. 

So  he  fought  as  he  had  not  fought  before  in  Tor- 
regiante.  And  at  last,  soon  after  midnight,  there 
entered  into  that  combat  the  first  vague  premonition 
of  victory. 

Little  Paganni's  skin  grew  moist.  His  eyes  lost 
something  of  their  immobility.  His  paroxysms  be- 
came less  intense.  His  feet  and  hands  ceased  to  feel 
ice-cold.  Even  his  pulse-beat  was  more  nearly 
regular. 

"This  tune,  a  good  reaction!" 

Agata,  the  mother,  knelt  and  prayed.  Her  large, 
coarse  lips  moved  tremulously.  Her  gaze  was  fixed 
with  frightful  fervor  on  the  shelf,  high  against  the 
wall,  that  held  the  inevitable  battered  image  of  the 
Virgin.  Big  Paganni,  seated  on  the  floor,  let  his 
head  sink  forward  toward  his  ragged  knees.  Even 
his  battered  hands,  pendent  and  quivering,  looked 
exhausted.  He  was  like  a  foundered  animal. 

In  the  other  room,  the  children  were  asleep. 

Ghirlaine  contemplated  the  setting  of  this  drama. 
No  place  could  well  have  been  more  wretched  or 


410  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

begrimed.  Every  article  in  the  room,  and  on  the 
backs  of  its  habitual  occupants,  was  a  wreck.  The 
makeshifts  of  this  household  were  infinitely  pathetic 
to  her.  She  had  never  imagined  such  poverty.  It 
seemed  incredible  that  human  beings  should  be  re- 
duced to  live  so,  and  yet  so  ardently  desire  to  cling 
to  life,  and  to  preserve  their  offspring  to  it. 

She  examined  the  faces  and  attitudes  of  the  par- 
ents. Those  hardly  seemed  to  her  the  features,  and 
the  poses,  of  real  people.  There  was  a  degree  of 
physical  abasement  below  which  her  full  comprehen- 
sion could  not  plunge. 

But  she  felt  that  such  existences  somehow  brought 
home  an  immeasurable  shame  to  her.  Or,  at  least, 
to  the  class  of  which  she  was  a  part? 

For  these  poor  creatures  ever  to  rise  above  them- 
selves would  require  centuries  on  centuries  of  evolu- 
tion. But  if  those  above  them  helped  them? 

Her  gaze  returned  to  Sebastian.  She  considered 
his  efforts  of  this  night,  of  all  the  nights  and  days 
since  the  cholera  had  come  to  Torregiante.  She  re- 
called him  as  she  had  known  him  up  there,  in  France, 
in  Rome,  and  as  she  had  previously  known  of  him 
— a  notorious  figure  infinitely  worse  than  useless, 
an  intellect  devoted  to  destruction  and  perversity. 
Sangallo's  words  returned  to  her,  "If  only  that  dead 
soul  of  his  were  resurrected!" 

Had  that  miracle  not  at  least  begun? 

If  it  should  continue?  With  that  extraordinary 
force  and  keenness  preserved  from  self-destruction, 
and  turned  toward  different  ends,  what  might  he  not 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  411 

do,  in  this  world  where  so  little,  after  all,  had  yet 
been  done? 

She  forgot  the  child  before  her,  her  own  peril,  and 
stricken  Torregiante.  Her  thoughts  reached  for- 
ward, through  the  present  darkness,  toward  the 
future,  as  though  toward  a  unique  and  splendid 
dawn.  .  .  . 

The  latch  clicked.  In  the  light  of  the  guttering 
candles,  a  young  man's  stolid  face  appeared.  He 
touched  his  hat,  with  a  slouchy  imitation  of  a  mili- 
tary salute. 

"Excellency,  you're  wanted  at  the  parish-house." 

Sebastian  rose,  examined  Little  Paganni,  and 
turned  to  Ghirlaine. 

"Will  you  let  this  man  take  you  to  the  villa 
now?" 

"Who  would  watch  the  child,  then,  while  you're 
away?" 

He  regarded  her  for  a  time,  then  said,  impassively: 

"If  the  spasms  return,  you  know  by  this  time  what 
to  do.  When  he  seems  to  need  nourishment,  give 
him  some  white  of  egg  beaten  up  with  water.  The 
chicken-coop  is  under  the  bed." 

He  hesitated,  and  added: 

"I  needn't  remind  you  again  of  the  danger.  .  .  ." 

She  heard  his  foot-falls  in  the  alleyway,  dimin- 
ishing slowly. 

Beneath  the  red  moon,  Sebastian  walked  along 
the  esplanade  toward  the  parish-house.  Beside  him 
went  the  messenger,  knocking  his  wooden-soled 
shoes  against  the  mooring-rings. 


412  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

The  windows  and  the  loggias  were  dark.  The 
fishing-boats,  drawn  up  on  the  strand,  seemed  like 
the  abandoned  fleet  of  men  who  would  never  return. 
In  the  silence,  the  noise  of  the  four  shoe-soles  re- 
echoed from  the  dim  house-walls.  The  messenger 
commenced  to  discuss  the  last  man  he  had  helped 
to  bury.  That  had  been  the  post-master. 

"Eh,  Signuri,  but  Annibale  will  laugh!  It  was  the 
post-master,  you  know,  who  wanted  to  marry  Fan- 
nia." 

Sebastian  returned,  wearily: 

"A  creature  like  Fannia  would  have  made  two 
wives  for  that  little  fellow." 

"He  was  a  short  specimen,  for  a  fact.  He  saved 
us  the  weight  of  several  spadefuls — may  his  feet  be 
cool  in  Purgatory.  .  .  .  Have  you  noticed  the  moon 
to-night,  Excellency?  It  looks  as  if  it  had  been 
dipped  in  blood.  That  means  a  fattu  di  sangui — a 
murder." 

"We're  having  rather  enough  mortality,  I  think, 
as  it  is." 

"Pri  Baccu!  Wait  till  the  doctors  come !  They'll 
show  us  what  dead  men  look  like,  will  the  doctors!" 

But  Sebastian's  thoughts  had  returned  to  the  room 
he  had  just  left,  and  her  face,  as  he  had  seen  it  at 
their  parting. 

They  passed  the  Grand  Cafe  of  the  Sea.  In  the 
dark  doorway,  a  man  was  lounging.  He  flicked  the 
ashes  from  a  cigarette:  and  the  red  light  in  the  sky 
sent  flashes  from  his  finger-rings. 

Sebastian  halted.    For  an  instant,  he  nearly  lost 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  413 

his  self-control.  He  had  an  inclination  to  draw  the 
pistol  from  his  pocket  and  empty  it  into  the  body  of 
the  Camorrista.  But  he  remembered  the  night  of 
Saint  Giosue's/esfo,  the  storm,  her  room,  a  long  knife 
pressed  against  that  perfect  breast.  ...  A  low 
laugh,  of  self-contempt,  escaped  him.  Should  one 
kill  another  for  impulses  identical  with  one's  own? 

"Good-evening,  Signore,"  said  Sebastian. 

The  stranger  instantly  made  a  wide  flourish  with 
his  panama  hat. 

"Good-evening  to  you,  Signore!  Not  too  gay, 
these  days,  Torregiante,  eh?" 

"No,  not  too  gay." 

"I  presume  you're  rather  busy  just  now?" 

"Somewhat." 

The  stranger  was  silent  for  a  time.     Then,  suavely : 

"Well,  Signore,  good-night,  and  take  good  care 
of  yourself." 

' '  Good-night,  Signore.     Good  repose. ' ' 

The  eastern  promontory  grew  distinct  before  them. 
The  church-tower,  bathed  in  the  unnatural  radiance 
of  the  night,  rose  behind  the  parish-house  softly 
alight  at  every  window.  On  the  threshold  Don 
Vigilio  met  him. 

"Well,  my  son,  it's  still  another  hopeless  case." 

"Oldllario?" 

"No,  he  is  better.     The  school-master." 

Sebastian  entered.  The  familiar  atmosphere,  of 
concentrated  suffering  and  terror,  enveloped  him. 

He  passed  through  the  kitchen.  There  Maria  was 
sprawled  over  a  chair  asleep,  her  triple  chin  sagging, 


414  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

her  hands,  white  and  corrugated  from  the  handling 
of  countless  steaming  blankets,  half  open  on  her 
knees.  "Poor  old  rip,"  said  Sebastian  to  himself, 
and  stepped  more  lightly.  But,  with  a  snort,  Maria 
scrambled  to  her  feet.  She  rumbled: 

"Signuri,  the  barley  gruel  and  the  milk  are  ready. 
I've  boiled  five  litres  of  tea.  But  we  need  more  red 
wine.  .  .  ." 

Rubbing  her  eyes,  she  waddled  after  him  into  the 
adjoining  room. 

There  the  pallets  lay  close.  The  faces  upturned 
to  the  faint  light  were  all  strangely  similar  in  their 
color  and  their  sharpness.  At  his  approach,  some 
eyes  remained  motionless,  oblivious,  as  if  fixed  on 
mysteries  that  these  others  could  not  yet  see.  But  a 
few,  slowly  rolling  their  bluish  visages  toward  him, 
seemed,  so  to  speak,  to  return  a  little  way  from  the 
border-land  of  life. 

He  went  from  one  to  another,  touching  the  skin, 
laying  a  finger  on  a  pulse,  saying  a  word  or  two,  smil- 
ing a  smile  that  these  men,  even  in  their  extremity, 
could  appreciate — a  smile  that  told  them,  "At  least 
we're  still  fighting ! "  He  turned  to  the  priest. 

"How  are  the  women?" 

"Most  of  them  are  better  than  these." 

"Then  let's  look  at  the  school-master." 

But  it  needed  only  a  glance  at  the  school-master 
to  tell  Sebastian  the  worst. 

"We  can  do  nothing  here.  He'll  go  out  in  this 
reaction." 

Once  more,  Don  Vigilio's  faded  eyes  were  called 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  415 

upon  to  fill  with  tears.  All  this  poor  victim's  past 
chirrupings  of  blasphemy,  all  his  covert  sneers,  all  his 
spiteful  little  acts  of  enmity  and  obstruction,  were 
quite  forgotten  now.  The  old  priest  turned  to  Maria. 

"Hang  some  sheets  round  this  cot.  I  am  going 
for  the  Santissimo" 

"The  Santissimo  for  an  atheist?"  asked  Sebastian, 
dryly. 

"Are  we  so  sure,  after  all?" 

Sebastian  sat  down  beside  the  bed. 

The  school-master  became  conscious  of  his  pres- 
ence. His  head  turned  on  the  pillow.  He  sent  forth 
a  long  look,  of  poignant  inquiry. 

Sebastian  nodded. 

He  had  received  that  mute  inquiry  before,  from 
other  eyes.  He  had  answered  it  before  in  the  same 
manner,  to  prepare  the  questioner  for  the  sight  of 
Don  Vigilio  in  his  vestments,  with  the  Host  gleam- 
ing in  his  hands.  But  his  answer  had  never  pro- 
duced, in  the  wretch  who  comprehended  it,  this  look 
of  absolute  despair.  For  in  the  others  there  had 
been  the  certainty  of  something  in  the  Beyond.  In 
this  one,  there  was  nothing  but  the  prospect  of  an- 
nihilation. 

Annihilation!  To  become  nothing!  To  cease  ut- 
terly to  be!  To  the  poor  vain  egotist  it  was  more 
ghastly  than  the  expectation  of  a  Hell! 

Intent,  still  almost  dispassionately  curious,  Se- 
bastian watched  the  play  of  emotion  on  that  puer- 
ile countenance.  "Truly,"  he  muttered,  below  his 
breath,  "it  takes  strong  men  to  stand  alone.  But 


4i 6  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

how  should  one  know  how  strong  he  is,  until  the 
final  test?  .  .  ." 

Presently,  from  the  lips  of  the  sufferer,  broke  a 
voiceless  cry: 

"No!  .  .  .  No!  .  .  ." 

Sebastian  asked  calmly: 

"And  why  not?" 

"The  darkness.  ...  If  only  .  .  .  But  the  dark- 
ness! .  .  ." 

Then  he  saw  the  priest  at  the  bedside,  robed,  hold- 
ing the  Viaticum,  and  behind  him,  in  a  dirty,  tat- 
tered surplice,  the  little  acolyte,  shrinking  from  all 
that  met  his  eyes. 

And,  without  stirring,  suddenly  the  victim's  whole 
body  appeared  to  reach  out  toward  that  emblem  of 
Immortality,  that  seemed  of  itself  to  give  forth  a 
singular  radiance  from  between  Don  Vigilio's  trans- 
parent fingers. 

The  priest's  countenance  showed  a  smile  at  once 
triumphant  and  pitiful.  He  sank  on  one  knee  beside 
the  pallet.  His  arm  was  solemnly  extended.  Docile- 
ly, the  anguished  eyes  veiled  themselves.  With  his 
thumb,  Don  Vigilio  anointed  them.  The  hush  was 
penetrated  by  his  quavering  whisper: 

"Through  this  holy  unction,  and  His  most  tender 
mercy,  may  God  pardon  thee  those  sins  thou  hast 
committed  by  seeing.  Amen.  .  .  ." 

He  touched  the  ears,  and  then  the  lips. 

"Through  this  holy  unction,  and  His  most  tender 
mercy,  may  God  pardon  thee  those  sins  thou  hast 
committed  by  speaking.  Amen.  .  .  . 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  417 

"Through  this  holy  unction  .  .  .  ." 

The  words,  very  softly  spoken,  seemed  different 
from  other  words.  Each  syllable  had,  as  it  were,  an 
unearthly  value.  At  least,  the  effect  was  extraor- 
dinary. The  face  on  the  pillow  ceased  to  be  the  face 
of  one  in  torment. 

In  the  end,  delicately,  between  thumb  and  finger, 
Don  Vigilio  held  out  the  crucifix.  And  the  disfigured 
lips,  through  which  had  passed  abnegation  and  blas- 
phemy of  God,  kissed  with  a  thirsty  eagerness  the 
rudely  chiselled  little  image  of  Christ.  When  all  was 
finished,  his  visage  was  as  calm  as  the  others  had 
been.  .  .  . 

Sebastian  returned  to  the  Pagannis'  house. 

The  air  had  freshened.  Dawn  was  near.  From 
the  groves  on  the  slopes  behind  the  village  came  the 
twitter  of  waking  birds.  One  call  was  like  the  liquid 
cadenza  of  a  flute  of  donax-reeds.  He  quickened  his 
steps. 

The  alley-door  stood  open.  Ghirlaine  was  sitting 
at  the  bedside.  Her  eyes  were  hollow:  but  her  face 
wore  a  look  of  happiness! 

He  stood  beside  her. 

"How  has  he  been?" 

"So  much  better!" 

Sebastian  leaned  over  Little  Paganni.  Very  gen- 
tly he  brushed  back  the  thick  chestnut  curls.  His 
hand  lingered  on  the  young  cheeks.  He  uttered  a 
low  laugh. 

"By  Jove,  I  think  we've  won!" 

He  turned  to  the  mother  and  the  father. 


418  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"My  friends,  I  fancy  your  mqffiusinu  is  going  to 
get  well.  Pipa!  No  noise!  He  must  sleep.  And, 
by  the  same  token,  so  must  I!" 

He  shook  off  the  woman,  who  was  trying  to  kiss 
his  hand. 

"Pay  attention  to  what  I'm  saying,  both  of  you. 
I've  given  orders  for  him  to  be  removed  at  daylight 
to  the  parish-house,  and  for  the  other  children  to  go 
to  the  Syndic.  As  soon  as  they're  out,  this  bed,  and 
everything  we've  been  using,  will  be  destroyed. 
Whatever  is  destroyed,  as  I've  told  you  all,  time  and 
time  again,  I  will  replace.  So  perhaps  you  won't 
take  clubs  to  my  young  men,  when  they  come  to 
burn  mattresses? 

"As  for  you  two,  eat  and  drink  nothing,  hence- 
forth, that  hasn't  been  prepared  in  the  cafe.  Touch 
no  food  without  washing  your  hands  in  hot  water. 
If  one  of  you  feels  ill,  let  the  other  come  and  hunt 
me  up." 

To  Ghirlaine: 

"Now,  then,  I'll  see  you  to  the  villa." 

They  emerged  into  the  alleyway,  gray  with  the 
first  light  of  the  dawn.  Big  Paganni  and  Agata  fol- 
lowed them.  The  mother  kept  crying: 

"God  will  reward  you!  God  and  His  blessed 
saints  will  reward  you!" 

The  father,  his  long  face  twisted  into  unaccus- 
tomed lines  of  gratitude,  echoed  her  with  violent 
fervor: 

"God  will  surely  reward  you!  ..." 

Sebastian  and  Ghirlaine  traversed  the  esplanade, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  419 

climbed  amid  the  bowlders  of  the  lower  slope,  and 
took  the  hill-path  toward  the  headland. 

On  the  ascent,  a  cool  breeze  came  to  them  out  of 
the  pale  east. 

"The  heat  is  breaking.  That's  what  we  need. 
Perhaps  this  is  the  turning-point." 

"  Perhaps.  .  .  ." 

As  they  climbed  through  the  woods,  the  sky,  be- 
yond the  swaying  branches,  turned  from  green  to 
gold.  The  heavens  were  pervaded  by  an  intense 
clarity. 

Amid  the  leaves,  on  all  sides,  the  birds  were  war- 
bling, joyously,  at  the  new  gift  of  life  that  had  just 
come  to  them,  with  the  immaculate  dawn. 

Ahead,  the  trees  thinned  away.  On  the  summit 
appeared  the  villa,  ruddy  in  the  first  dazzling  shafts 
of  sunlight,  transfigured,  like  a  place  of  dreams. 

Sebastian  halted. 

"I'll  leave  you  here." 

"And  where  are  you  going  now?" 

"To  the  church.  I've  a  cot  under  Don  Vigilio's 
pulpit.  And  I'll  warrant  I'm  not  the  first  who's 
slept  in  that  vicinity!" 

He  turned  grave. 

"Those  clothes  you  have  on.  Throw  them  over 
the  cliffs  before  you  bathe." 

He  still  hesitated,  staring  into  her  eyes.    Then : 

"Tell  me  truly.  Was  it  altogether  the  Camor- 
rista?" 

"Altogether." 

"Your  fear  of  him,  I  mean?" 


420  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Her  eyes  fell. 

"  My  fear  of  him.     Of  what  might  happen.  .  .  ." 

"Not  your  determination,  then,  to  show  once  more 
that  you  were  not  a  coward?" 

She  raised  her  head.  Speaking  quickly,  in  a 
breathless  way: 

"I  came  down  to  warn  you.  I  thought  you  didn't 
know.  I  believed  you  were  hi  danger." 

His  features  did  not  change.  But  a  white  flame 
seemed  to  have  swept  across  his  face. 

"And?" 

"And  those  poor  creatures  down  there  had  no  one 
who  could  help  them  but  you.  ...  If  anything  had 
happened  to  you,  what  would  have  happened  to 
them?  .  .  ." 

"Ah." 

He  turned  away,  and  went  down  the  hillside. 

She  stood  looking  after  him,  her  hands  pressed 
against  her  heart,  a  figure  all  aflame  in  the  red  sun- 
rise. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

GHIRLAINE,  despite  her  physical  weariness,  did  not 
sleep.  Her  mind  had  never  been  more  feverishly 
active.  And  from  none  of  her  thoughts  did  she  draw 
back  to-day,  not  even  from  the  most  enormous — that 
this  man,  who  had  done  her  irreparable  injuries, 
might  on  two  occasions,  by  a  word  or  gesture,  have 
made  her  forget  all  that! 

The  night  when  he  had  turned  back  the  cholera 
mob,  this  morning,  when  he  had  left  her  to  go  down 
again  into  the  plague-town,  there  had  welled  up  in 
her  heart  an  unreasoning,  fierce  homage.  At  those 
moments,  she  had  seen  nothing  distinctly  save  his 
unconquerable  virility.  And  to  that  perception  her 
nature  had  responded  with  such  fervor  as  if  in  her 
body  a  strange  being  had  replaced  herself. 

"Who  am  I?  "she  thought.  "What  is  he?  What 
are  we  all,  in  this  mad  world  where  only  the  impos- 
sible seems  to  happen?"  She  looked  in  her  mirror, 
at  the  face  that  had  brought  these  things  to  pass. 
Contemplating  that  beauty,  she  remembered  Helen's, 
which  had  been  the  death  of  countless  brave  men, 
and  the  ruin  of  a  city.  She  remembered  Lucretia, 
and  the  wars  that  had  followed  on  her  tears.  And 
she  realized  that  age  after  age  certain  visages  must 
be  the  instruments  of  tragedy. 

Now  she  discerned  many  things  that  had  been 

421 


422  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

veiled  from  her,  in  the  old  life  up  there.  Even  his 
emotions,  as  they  had  been  related  to  her,  she  could 
glimpse  now.  But  not  yet  in  their  entirety. 

And  there  came  to  her  an  intense  curiosity,  such 
as  she  had  not  felt  regarding  even  Vincent  Pamfort. 

In  Vincent  Pamfort,  for  all  his  native  reticence, 
there  was  nothing  complex.  Her  years  with  him 
would  have  been  practically  a  continuation  of  the 
old.  Was  it  not  as  a  safe  life-comrade,  rather  than 
as  a  lover,  that  he  had  appealed  to  her?  Had  they 
ever  really  risen  above  sentimental  mediocrity? 

She  recalled  the  night  of  his  good-by  in  the  Pal- 
azzo Campobasso.  But  was  it  surely  he  who  had 
impelled  that  moment  of  unprecedented  self-aban- 
donment? .  .  . 

Did  she  not  remember  it!  And  their  mutual 
amazement— hers  at  herself,  and  his  at  what  she  had 
revealed!  Then,  for  an  instant,  she  had  known  her- 
self to  be  a  creature  of  possibilities  hitherto  unguessed 
— the  sanctuary  of  divine  fires.  And  had  he  not, 
just  for  one  second,  recoiled  from  that  perception, 
almost  like  a  man  who  has  embraced  a  human 
shape,  to  find  her  suddenly  transformed  into  an 
immortal?  .  .  . 

If  he  had  evoked  that  moment,  would  he  have  met 
it  so?  Could  one  who  had  drawn  back  from  it,  for 
however  infinitesimal  a  time,  ever  have  risen  with 
her  into  those  radiant,  flaming  spaces  that  had  then 
opened  out  above  her? 

A  half-pitying  smile  crossed  her  lips.  She  looked 
back  on  the  past  as  one  looks  back  from  maturity  on 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  423 

adolescence,  when  smaller  needs  were  satisfied  with 
smaller  things.  The  dream  of  the  peaceful  English 
country-side  receded  even  farther,  and  grew  very 
dim — like  a  mirage  that  could  no  longer  hover  near 
this  isle  of  savage  hues  and  violent  contours. 

But  surely  that  less  vital  past  was  soon  going  to 
reclaim  her  now.  What  was  phantasmal  to-day 
would  coalesce  into  reality  again.  And  this  place 
would  become  the  dream. 

She  felt  a  swift  flash  of  rage,  that  forces  and  per- 
sons, instead  of  herself,  should  so  sweep  her  hither 
and  thither.  Why  did  she  exist,  if  she  had  no  choice 
to  choose? 

But  what  did  she  wish  to  choose? 

Unflinchingly,  she  looked  this  question  in  the  face: 
"Would  I  want  everything  just  as  it  was  before?" 

The  past  years  rose  up,  their  fashionable  richness, 
their  aimless  hubbub,  the  feverish  fulness  of  events 
that  masked  their  emptiness — how  trivial,  how  mer- 
etricious, how  humdrum  now!  As  a  girl,  she  had 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  those  ample,  glistening 
places  filled  with  an  ecstasy  of  anticipation,  her  eyes 
dazzled  by  the  brilliancy,  her  senses  confused  by  the 
clatter  of  meaningless  festivity,  sure  that  the  culmi- 
nation of  all  happiness  lay  within.  But  how  soon 
had  she  not  begun  to  repeat  those  words,  "  It  is  only 
elsewhere  that  I  shall  find  it!" 

Then  Pamfort  had  come,  and  she  had  seen  another 
sort  of  vista,  serene,  tender,  placid  as  the  "golden 
mean"  of  Horace.  That  region  she  would  never 
reach.  But  would  she  have  gone  back  to  the  point 
where  its  attainment  had  been  possible? 


424  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Now  she  repeated  again: 

"  It  is  only  elsewhere.  ..." 

For  her  awakening  spirit  saw  that  vista,  too,  as  a 
space  too  small  for  her  containment. 

"What  am  I,  to-day?  What  shall  I  be  to- 
morrow? .  .  ." 

At  last,  wearied  by  such  speculations,  she  went 
out  on  the  portico,  and  gazed  down,  hands  shading 
eyes,  skirts  blowing,  toward  the  village. 

The  air  was  clear.  Every  house-window,  every 
roof,  every  brown-tile  gutter,  stood  forth  distinctly. 
The  fishing-boats,  drawn  up  on  the  beach,  sent  to 
her  the  various  colors  of  their  painted  hulls.  This 
atmospheric  clarity  elated  her.  The  clean,  fresh 
wind  had  swept  away  the  heat-mists.  Perhaps  it 
would  sweep  away  the  cholera? 

Fannia  came,  the  baby  in  her  arms,  her  ragged 
skirts  flapping  round  her  stout  brown  ankles,  and 
stood  beside  Ghirlaine.  The  latter  asked: 

"  Where  is  Annibale?" 

"On  the  hillside,  Signura,  since  you  told  him  of 
this  new  Camorrista.  To  make  sure  that  one  doesn't 
come  up  a  third  time." 

"Then  he  came  up  a  second  time!" 

"Part-way."  Fannia's  strong,  handsome  face  was 
twisted  by  a  half -contemptuous  grimace.  "Part- 
way only,  Signura.  For  Annibale  clicked  his  rifle 
behind  the  cactus,  and  called  out:  'This  is  private 
land,  foreigner.  Nothing  passes  here  but  bullets." 

"And  the  Camorrista?" 

"What  was  there  for  him  to  do?  He  laughed  out 
of  one  side  of  his  mouth,  and  went  down  again." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  425 

She  reflected  awhile,  then  added,  with  a  sort  of 
grudging  admiration: 

"But  the  Signuri,  when  he  first  came  up,  and 
Annibale  clicked  his  rifle  at  him,  didn't  go  back." 

And  after  a  time: 

"But  what  would  you  have?  The  Signuri  isn't 
like  other  men.  As  you  are  not  like  other  women, 
Signura." 

"Am  I  not,  Fannia?" 

They  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes:  and  Ghirlaine's 
fell  before  the  peasant's,  which  were  full  of  a 
strangely  piercing,  natural  intelligence. 

"Eh,"  said  Fannia,  dryly,  turning  away,  "I  think 
not,  for  a  fact,  Signura.  .  .  .  Eccu!  Look,  there  is 
the  Signuri  now,  going  to  the  parish-house." 

They  saw  him  cross  the  esplanade,  and  climb  the 
eastern  promontory.  Don  Vigilio  met  him  at  the 
door,  and  they  went  in  together. 

Within,  they  found  improvement.  At  every  cot, 
their  spirits  rose  higher.  It  seemed  as  if  the  cholera, 
like  a  sentient  thing,  had  almost  satisfied  its  lust  for 
killing.  The  dangerous  cases  were  convalescent. 
No  new  seizures  were  reported  from  the  village.  In- 
doors and  out,  a  current  of  fresh  vitality,  and  of 
hope,  had  as  it  were  been  set  in  motion  by  that 
quickened  air.  In  the  hospital,  eyes  showed  instead 
of  the  blankness  of  despair  the  eagerness  of  sufferers 
who  see  a  fighting  chance. 

Sebastian  moved  among  them,  haggard,  but  beam- 
ing. The  very  weak  followed  him  continually  with 
beseeching  glances.  The  convalescents  returned  his 


426  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

greetings  with  faint  grins,  half  ashamed  and  half 
exultant.  Old  Ilario,  on  his  pallet,  stretched  out  his 
dry,  withered  neck,  showed  under  his  white  bristles  a 
curious  contortion  of  the  mouth,  and  revealed  the 
fact  that  even  he  could  produce  a  sort  of  smile. 

"Well,  grandfather!    The  wind  has  changed." 

"I  knew  it." 

"And  now  we're  all  going  to  get  well." 

"  I  don't  dispute  it.     Even  this  old  hulk,  I  think." 

"And  when  you're  on  your  feet  again?"  asked  Se- 
bastian, looking  at  him  keenly. 

The  ancient's  puckered  face  twitched.  Presently 
he  whispered: 

"Well,  Signuri,  it's  like  this.  While  I  lay  here, 
waiting  for  Don  Vigilio  to  feed  me  the  Sacrament  and 
have  done  with  me,  I  found  time  to  think  a  bit.  I 
thought  some  of  Fannia,  my  trollop  of  a  daughter. 
And  of  Annibale.  And  of  that  brat  of  theirs.  .  .  . 
What  did  you  say  his  name  was?" 

"Ercole." 

"Ercole,  that's  it.  A  silly  name:  but  any  business 
left  to  two  fools  is  a  silly  business.  Anyhow,  I 
thought  of  him,  for  some  reason  or  other.  And  of  a 
drum  I  have  hi  my  house,  that  I  bought  one  day, 
like  a  donkey,  for  eighteen  soldi,  when  I  was  hi  Tra- 
pani,  many  years  ago.  When  I  thought  my  wife 
was  going  to  have  a  boy.  But  all  she  had,  porca 
Madonna,  was  Fannia!" 

"What  an  outrage!" 

"Eh!  Who  can  depend  on  a  woman  to  do  a  good 
piece  of  work!  ...  So  I  thought  of  that  drum,  like 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  427 

an  old  donkey,  as  I  say.  When  I  should  have  been 
thinking  of  the  Sacrament.  Though,"  with  a  side- 
glance  to  see  if  Don  Vigilio  was  near,  "  I  dare  say  the 
taste  of  it  is  quite  a  disappointment  to  most  of  us?" 

"You  mustn't  talk  too  much  just  yet,  Ilario." 

"Signuri,  it  is  a  fact  that  these  last  few  days  a 
number  of  my  organs  have  gone  against  my  wishes, 
but  at  least  I  am  the  master  of  my  tongue.  To  re- 
sume. That  drum.  It's  broken  in  on  one  side,  and 
my  wife  got  a  beating  for  that.  But  now  she's  dead 
these  several  years,  and  doubtless  understands  why. 
.  .  .  Anyhow,  not  to  take  in  all  the  fish  one  by 
one,  when  I'm  on  my  legs  again,  I  shall  fetch  that 
drum  up  to  your  place,  and  give  it  to  this  brat  by  the 
name  of  Ercole,  and  say  to  him,  'Now,  then,  beat  it 
well,  and  let  me  hear  you  beat  it  well,  and  an  apo- 
plexy on  you  for  making  me  climb  this  hill  for  such 
a  trifle!'" 

The  old  man,  with  a  snort,  turned  his  head  away 
and  lay  motionless.  He  concluded,  harshly: 

"You  asked  me  what  I  shall  do  when  I'm  up,  and 
I've  told  you.  Well,  are  you  satisfied?" 

"Oh,  quite!" 

"Then  in  God's  name,  leave  me  for  a  while  in 
peace!" 

Sebastian  moved  on  to  the  Maresciallo's  bedside. 

The  big,  blond  carabineer  was  well  enough,  by  this 
time,  to  be  angry  at  Sicily's  delay  in  sending  help. 
But  when  he  had  relieved  his  mind  with  a  volley  of 
Tuscan  expletives,  he  stopped,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  remarked: 


428  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"After  all,  Excellency,  these  southerners.  As 
these  islanders  of  Torregiante  are  to  Sicily,  so  is 
Sicily  to  the  North.  What  haven't  I  learned,  since 
my  profession  brought  me  into  these  parts !  For  one 
thing,  that  it's  folly  to  expect  much  of  folks  who've 
never  had  the  means  of  learning.  That  is  why  I'm 
not  so  full  as  I  used  to  be  of  virtuous  indignation, 
when  one  of  them,  for  instance,  commits  a  fatto  di 
sangue,  and  throws  his  victim  down  the  trap  in  the 
temple  of  the  Old  Ones.  .  .  ." 

Sebastian  returned  his  steady  gaze  unwinkingly, 
till  he  went  on : 

"For  of  course,  from  their  point  of  view,  there 
are  always  extenuating  circumstances.  Which,  even 
from  ours,  must  be  rather  sound,  when  a  gentleman 
is  accessory  to  the  deed?  " 

Still  Sebastian  made  no  reply.  The  Marshal 
mused: 

"To  make  a  murder  trial,  the  body  is  indispensa- 
ble. I  think  no  one  will  ever  get  at  Nino's.  The  Old 
Ones  are  jealous  of  their  secrets.  Besides,  perhaps 
all  this  is  just  a  surmise  of  mine.  ...  In  my  opinion, 
that  disappearance  must  join  the  unexplained  mys- 
teries of  Torregiante." 

Said  Sebastian  at  last: 

"Maresciallo,  I  believe  you  possess  that  rare  thing, 
a  sympathetically  judicial  mind." 

"Too  much  honor,  Excellency!  But  at  least,  I've 
learned  this  much  in  these  parts:  that  the  law  isn't 
justice  when  applied  in  the  same  way  to  the  civilized 
and  the  uncivilized.  Mah,  does  one  punish  children 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  429 

as  one  punishes  men?  And  if  these  people  remain 
like  children,  their  crimes,  as  well  as  their  sufferings, 
are  on  our  head.  We  who  are  rising,  Signore,  owe 
it  to  the  rest  to  pull  them  after  us?" 

"These  are  not  the  ideas  of  a  carabineer,  Maresei- 
allo." 

"Maybe  your  Excellency  is  right.  Some  of  them 
are  probably  Don  Vigilio's,  and  I  have  had  them 
from  him  in  our  evenings  together?  At  any  rate, 
it's  perfectly  true  that  I've  only  had  them  lately." 

"  A  place  for  new  thoughts,  eh,  Torregiante?  .  .  ."" 

And  Sebastian  returned  absent-mindedly  to  Little 
Paganni's  cot. 

Old  Maria  was  sitting  beside  that  small  patient, 
her  triple  chin  sagging,  fighting  against  drowsiness. 
But  at  Sebastian's  approach  she  straightened  her 
mountainous  body  with  a  grunt.  Eagerly,  in  a  vio- 
lent wheeze,  which  doubtless  she  believed  to  be  a 
whisper: 

"He  is  asleep." 

"He  is  lucky." 

"An  hour  ago  he  drank  broth,  and  asked  after  his 
relations  like  a  man.  If  I  had  had  a  son,  he  would 
have  been  like  this  one!  But  alas,  my  sons  were  all 
daughters,  and  the  four  of  them  died  hi  one  week  in 
the  year  of  the  small-pox.  A  poor  thing,  my  husband, 
for  a  fact,  blessed  soul.  ...  He  was  drowned  in  a 
storm,  and  there  went  down  with  him  a  boat-load  of 
fine  fish — as  you  see,  an  extravagant  fellow  to  the 
last!  But  handsome  when  he  was  young.  This 
little  one  looks  like  him,  as  he  was  in  his  boyhood. 


430  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

We  were  betrothed  at  ten  years  of  age.  At  sixteen 
we  married,  and  none  too  soon.  Will  you  believe 
that  in  those  days  there  were  plenty  to  whisper  in  old 
Maria's  ear?  .  .  .  Eh,  and  here  is  another  that  we've 
saved  to  turn  girls'  heads,  and  play  once  too  often 
with  danger,  whether  of  water  or  steel,  and  leave  a 
fool  of  a  woman  crying  in  a  half -empty  bed!  ..." 

Said  Sebastian,  looking  down  at  the  little  thin  face 
on  the  pillow: 

"  If  I  had  my  own  future  in  my  hands,  I  could  tell 
you  very  quickly  what  we've  saved  him  for.  ..." 

That  afternoon,  he  walked  with  Don  Vigilio,  on 
the  stone  terrace  before  the  church-door. 

They  talked  of  the  checking  of  the  cholera,  and 
pondered  the  question  whether  their  rude  efforts,  or 
some  freak  of  the  epidemic,  had  been  responsible. 
Finally,  the  priest  declared: 

"This  is  my  belief.  In  every  time,  men  live  hi  the 
age  of  miracles.  That  they  don't  realize  the  fact,  is 
because  they  themselves  are  the  instruments  of  the 
miraculous.  Men  are  moved  to  do  wonders,  and, 
the  wonders  done,  say, '  It  is  I  who  have  accomplished 
this.'  But  at  our  moment  of  highest  inspiration, 
whether  hi  science,  or  art,  or  social  usefulness,  when 
that  is  suddenly  born  in  us  which  makes  for  a  new 
power  in  the  human  battle,  whence  comes  the  germ 
for  that  birth?  Ah,  my  son,  believe  me,  we  are  just 
the  field — how  fallow,  if  we  but  cleared  the  ground  of 
weeds!  And  the  seed  floats  down,  alights  within  us, 
takes  root,  springs  up,  and  bears  the  miraculous 
fruit. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  431 

"  One  day  you  asked  me  the  story  of  Saint  Giosue. 
It  is  all  written  out  in  an  ancient  book  in  the  sac- 
risty, in  old  French,  from  the  days  of  Roger  the  Nor- 
man. How  a  soldier  of  fortune,  who  had  seen  much 
blood  and  cruelty  in  many  lands,  came  here  in  pur- 
suit of  a  great  lady,  who  had  fled  from  him.  Here 
he  ran  her  down,  for  she  had  taken  refuge  in  a  castle 
which  used  to  stand  where  we're  standing  now,  but 
centuries  ago  its  walls  all  crumbled  into  the  sea.  And 
here  they  fought,  as  he  tells  it,  the  'battle  of  the 
white  banner  and  the  red.' 

"And  he  says:  'Of  all  the  wars  and  feuds  I  had 
known — and  those  were  not  a  few — never  before  had 
I  found  the  field  so  ill  prepared  for  victory.  For  this 
was  the  Isle  of  Life,  and  the  voices  of  the  Old  Ones 
troubled  me.  And  out  of  the  very  soil  of  the  Isle  of 
Life,  there  rose  strange  whispers  from  the  past,  and 
the  shapes  of  old  crimes.  Till  at  last,  one  evening, 
walking  on  the  heights,  as  always  in  the  intervals  of 
my  besiegement,  I  saw  our  Blessed  Lord  and  Saviour 
coming  toward  me  through  the  shadows,  leading  by 
the  hand  the  image  of  Myself,  all  black  and  bloody, 
to  show  it  to  me.  And  I  fled  from  that  sight,  and 
went  down  to  the  shore.  And  there  I  took  off  my 
hauberk  and  my  helmet,  and  knelt  before  the  castle 
gate,  and  cried  out,  "King  Roger  has  said  yes,  but 
King  Jesus  Christ  says  no.  Go  in  peace."  And  she 
departed,  standing  like  a  fair  white  image  against 
the  sky,  on  a  little  galley;  for  I  had  sent  back  the 
large  ships  for  engines  to  break  the  walls.  And  at 
her  departure  she  appeared  so  beautiful  that  she 


432  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

seemed  already  to  have  become  a  soul  in  Paradise. 
And  this  was  no  less  strange  than  all  the  rest:  for 
the  galley  went  down  in  a  great  sea  off  Sicily — but 
she  was  lifted  up,  with  robes  all  dry,  by  angels  into 
Paradise,  as  those  testified  who  were  saved.  And  I 
sent  away  my  people,  bidding  them  go  their  ways 
and  do  no  more  evil.  But  I  remained  here.  And 
when  King  Roger  sent  messengers,  I  gave  them  for 
him  my  broken  sword,  and  a  cross  that  I  had  carved 
out  of  olive-wood.  And  since  then,  every  evening 
on  the  heights,  I  meet  my  Saviour  walking  hand  in 
hand  with  Myself;  but  Myself  is  no  longer  black  and 
bloody.  For' — and  these  words  are  engrossed  in 
gold — 'that  part  of  me  which  I  loved  best  I  have 
destroyed." 

Sebastian  started  from  his  revery. 

"The  writing  in  the  temple!" 

"Is  that  so?    Well,  what  is  new,  in  this  life?" 

"What  indeed?  .  .  ." 

For  a  while,  Sebastian  smoked  in  silence.  At 
length,  with  a  smile : 

"Are  you  familiar,  Padre,  with  the  doctrine  of 
reincarnation?" 

"Somewhat." 

"But  naturally  it  hasn't  your  approval.  Nor 
mine,  as  I  need  hardly  say!  .  .  .  All  the  same,  it's  an 
amusing  theme  for  fancy,  for  egotists,  who  dream  of 
getting  in  a  hereafter  what  Fate  has  denied  them 
here.  .  .  .  Our  Giosue,  first  condottiere  at  large,  then 
local  saint — one  would  imagine,  according  to  the 
Buddhists,  for  instance,  that  he'd  finished  that  par- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  433 

ticular  test  successfully,  and  wouldn't  have  to  return 
to  it  again?" 

"I  presume  one  would  think  so,  yes,  according  to 
the  Buddhists,"  Don  Vigilio  answered,  in  some  per- 
plexity. 

"Unless,"  Sebastian  resumed,  still  smiling,  "his 
final  decision  was  an  error?" 

"An  error!" 

As  if  to  himself,  Sebastian  repeated: 

"Not  union,  but  separation.  .  .  ." 

The  old  priest's  worn  face  began  to  flush. 

"Not  carnal  union,  no.  But  not  separation, 
either!  Union  with  God,  my  son." 

"Are  the  two  absolutely  incompatible?" 

Don  Vigilio  quoted,  in  a  quivering  voice: 

"'He  who  declares  that  celibacy  is  not  a  better 
state,  let  him  be  anathema ! ' ' 

"Then  why  are  we  here,  in  this  world?" 

"To  triumph  over  it." 

"Why  should  I  have  half -expected  you  to  say,  To 
fit  ourselves  to  live  in  it?  ...  No,  we  must  differ 
there.  In  my  opinion,  Saint  Giosue  read  the  writing 
wrong." 

His  gaze  reached  out  toward  the  western  headland. 
High  into  the  clear  sky  it  rose;  and  round  its  vast 
rock  foundations,  on  the  bosom  of  the  sharp  blue  sea, 
came  creeping  a  strange  steam-boat. 

Sebastian  added  quietly: 

"And  for  Saint  Giosue,  at  least,  there  must  still 
have  been  time  to  read  it  right.  .  .  .  Look,  Padre. 
There  comes  a  ship.  I  fancy  it's  one  that  I've  been 
expecting  for  a  long  while." 


434  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"The  doctors!" 

"You  think  so?" 

"But  what  else,  good  Heavens!" 

"At  any  rate,  let's  go  down  and  see." 

But  it  was  only  the  doctors. 

White-clad,  with  orderlies,  nurses,  and  a  detach- 
ment of  carabineers  from  Palermo,  they  swarmed 
into  Torregiante,  to  find  their  work  all  done  for  them. 
The  epidemic  was  conquered.  The  islanders  were 
peaceable  once  more.  Nothing  remained  but  to  dis- 
infect the  houses  and  the  alleyways,  safeguard  the 
convalescents — and  irritate  the  natives. 

For  these,  at  the  invasion  of  the  "foreigners,"  had 
shown  signs  of  new  suspicion.  Where  there  were 
doctors  were  always  dead  men!  Did  these  strut- 
ting strangers  intend  to  undo  everything? 

It  was  not  till  Sebastian  had  harangued  them  on 
the  esplanade,  that  they  would  leave  off  showing 
their  teeth  and  growling.  Then  Big  Paganni,  stand- 
ing lank  and  solemn  hi  his  patches,  his  slanting  eyes 
fixed  on  Sebastian,  voiced  the  general  sentiment : 

"Signuri,  if  you  tell  us  it's  so,  we  will  believe  you 
— till  we  see  otherwise  for  ourselves.  You  have 
given  me  back  my  son;  and  there  are  more  here  pres- 
ent who  owe  some  life  to  you.  We  people  of  Turri- 
gianti  aren't  fond  of  strangers  at  any  time.  As  per- 
haps you've  found  out  for  yourself.  These  new  ones 
are  assassins  at  home,  no  doubt,  one  and  all!  You 
see  them  over  everything  already,  like  a  litre  of  fleas ! 
Let  them  take  care  that  nobody  sickens  of  their 
biting!  .  .  . 

"But  you  say  you'll  be  responsible?    Only  one 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  435 

thing,  Signuri.  We  ask  you  to  see  that  they  fin- 
ish their  foolishness  and  go  quickly.  We  are  free 
men  here,  not  used  to  taking  orders  from  outsiders, 
and  our  tempers  are  short.  A  man  can't  contain 
himself  forever.  Better  to  let  some  one  else's  blood 
than  to  let  one's  own  in  an  apoplexy.  .  .  ." 

Toward  evening,  Sebastian,  freed  from  his  labors, 
went  up  to  the  northern  cliffs,  and  entered  the  temple. 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  candle-end,  lighted  it, 
and  set  it  on  the  little  altar.  Then,  leaning  forward, 
he  deciphered  once  more  the  archaic  inscription  on 
the  wall. 

To  reach  my  altar,  that  part  of  you  which  you  have  loved  best 
must  be  destroyed.  .  .  . 

Up  from  the  echo-well,  through  the  subterranean 
passages  somewhere  in  which  the  bones  of  uncounted 
dead  men  lay,  clear  from  the  caves,  far  below,  where 
the  languid  tide  was  rolling  in,  came  softly  the 
"voices  of  the  Old  Ones,"  murmuring  still,  as  it 
seemed,  the  cryptic  answer  to  that  enigma.  The  dim 
stone  sanctuary  was  full  of  that  mysterious  sibilance, 
persistent  through  the  ages. 

At  last  Sebastian  sighed  quickly,  then  uttered  a 
low  laugh. 

Reaching  for  the  candle-end,  he  turned  toward  the 
door.  His  hand  remained  extended.  He  stood  mo- 
tionless. He  felt  himself  growing  tense,  compact, 
more  powerful  and  more  intelligent  than  he  had  been 
a  moment  before.  A  thrill  of  primitive  joy  went 
through  him. 


436  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

A  dozen  feet  away,  before  the  stone  screen  that 
masked  the  entrance,  on  the  very  crack  of  the  secret 
pitfall,  a  tall  man  was  standing,  looking  at  him.  It 
was  Angielo  Cristofores,  the  Camorrista. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

GHIRLAINE,  in  the  portico,  had  seen  Sebastian 
climb  the  hill-path,  and  turn  aside,  through  the 
groves,  toward  the  temple.  Soon  afterward,  Anni- 
bale  had  left  his  post  among  the  cactus-hedges,  come 
up  to  the  villa,  commented  on  the  doings  of  the  doc- 
tors and  the  carabineers,  then  gone  on  to  the  northern 
cliffs,  in  order  to  scramble  down  and  draw  his  nets. 
But  she  had  continued  to  search  the  slope  which  both 
had  travelled,  convinced  that  some  one  else  would 
follow  soon.  And  presently,  as  twilight  was  rushing 
in,  for  a  moment  she  saw  through  distant  foliage  a 
panama  hat. 

She  left  the  house,  broke  through  the  northern 
thickets,  traversed  the  narrow  cliff-path,  approached 
the  temple.  She  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  Ca- 
morrista  glide  inside.  In  another  moment,  on  swift 
but  noiseless  feet,  she  reached  the  door.  She  came 
too  late  for  warning,  but  not  too  late  to  hear  the  first 
words  of  that  encounter. 

It  was  the  Camorrista  who  spoke  first,  in  French. 
And  from  the  tone  of  his  voice  she  felt  that  he  did  so, 
even  at  this  moment,  because  he  was  proud  of  his 
mastery  and  excellent  pronunciation  of  that  lan- 
guage, as  he  was  proud  of  his  fastidious  attire,  his 
jewelled  rings,  and  the  quasi-gentlemanly  air  which 
he  maintained,  no  doubt,  through  all  his  villainy. 

437 


438  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

He  had  said: 

"I  disturb  you,  Monsieur?  But  it  is  so  difficult 
to  find  an  opportunity  for  uninterrupted  conver- 
sation." 

Sebastian's  voice  responded,  calmly: 

"Quite  so.  But  take  care  where  you  step,  Mon- 
sieur Cristofores.  There's  a  trap  almost  under  your 
feet.  Put  your  weight  on  it,  and  you  go  shooting 
down  toward  the  caves." 

A  silence.    At  length,  the  Camorrista's  voice: 

"  Tiens!  This  is  curious,  eh?  Not  only  the  little 
arrangements  of  this  place,  but  also  the  fact  that  you 
tell  me  of  them.  And — most  curious  of  all — since 
you  know  my  name?  " 

"Oh,  as  for  that!  Fame  will  out,  you  know,  like 
murder." 

"Ah,  Monsieur,  I  beg  of  you  no  flattery.  Yet,  at 
least,  knowing  my  name,  that  saves  us  a  pile  of  tire- 
some preliminaries." 

"Precisely.  .  .  .  Pardon  the  digression,  but  do 
you  find  it  uncomfortably  cold  in  here?" 

"Because  I  have  my  hands  in  my  pockets?" 

"Perhaps." 

"But  you  also,  Monsieur,  it  seems  to  me,  have  your 
hand  in  your  pocket." 

Sebastian  laughed  gently. 

"  The  last  time  I  looked  at  my  candle-end  it  was 
guttering.  And  the  sun  is  gone.  So  presently  we 
sha'n't  be  able  to  see  each  other.  And  that  would 
be  fatal  to  our  argument." 

It  was  the  Camorrista  who  laughed  now,  like  a  man 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  439 

who  has  entered  fully  into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion. 
He  said: 

"At  least,  confess  that  both  of  us  have  means  of 
making  lights!" 

"Oh,  I  should  have  too  much  advantage  of  you 
then.  I  know  this  place  like  my  pocket.  It  wouldn't 
be  I  who  might  step  on  the  trap  by  mistake,  and  find 
myself  suddenly  with  Nino." 

In  the  long  pause  that  followed,  Ghirlaine  crept 
inside  the  threshold  and  leaned,  with  pounding  heart, 
against  the  stone  screen  that  hid  the  sanctuary.  She 
pictured  the  scene  within:  the  two  men,  alert,  hands 
clasping  hidden  weapons,  staring  at  each  other  un- 
winkingly  across  the  pitfall.  If  she  made  some 
sound,  perhaps  for  one  instant  the  Camorrista  would 
be  disconcerted,  and  give  Sebastian  his  chance?  But 
she  was  afraid  to  set  loose  that  crash  of  tragedy, 
of  which  the  issue  might  easily  be  two  deaths  instead 
of  one. 

She  heard  the  stranger: 

"So  this  is  the  road  that  Nino  took!" 

And,  half  apologetically: 

"You  must  understand,  Monsieur,  that  I'm  not 
much  interested  in  the  affairs  of  that  little  animal 
per  se.  In  his  case,  it's  not  the  person,  but  the  prin- 
ciple. So  with  the  other  two.  They  were  much 
more  useful  parts  than  he,  but  still  quite  ordinary. 
By  far  too  ordinary  for  their  last  performance,  Mon- 
sieur. That  was  because  we  had  the  misfortune  to 
underestimate  you.  But  since  they  suffered,  also, 
something  had  to  be  done.  Nowadays,  in  most 


440  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

states,  a  ruler  who  fails  to  protect  and  avenge  his 
people,  even  the  humblest,  is  not  for  long  a  popular 
ruler." 

"Your  sense  of  responsibility  does  you  credit." 

"When  this  affair  commenced,  I  was  much  occu- 
pied with  politics.  Otherwise,  perhaps  I  shouldn't 
have  consented  to  operations  so  far  afield.  But 
what  would  you  have?  This  has  been  a  thin  year 
for  our  poor  fellows  at  home.  .We  aren't  what  we 
were  before  the  process  at  Viterbo.  Many  of  our 
men  were  out  of  work  month  in,  month  out.  They 
clamored  to  take  up  this  job.  I  let  them  come.  .  .  . 

"Monsieur,  in  Naples,  at  the  present  moment,  they 
are  waiting  for  Masto  Angielo  Cristofores  to  tell 
them  that  in  our  hypothetical  ledgers  they  may  write 
against  the  unfortunate  incident  at  Torregiante, '  Ac- 
quitted.' You  perceive  my  dilemma?" 

"Naturally,  Monsieur.  The  candle  is  going  out; 
and  I  perceive  that  you  have  no  choice  but  to  take 
your  hands  from  your  pockets." 

Ghirlaine,  beyond  the  screen,  straightened  her 
trembling  limbs,  and  took  one  stealthy  step.  Was 
it  the  moment?  .  .  . 

The  Camorrista 's  voice  arrested  her. 

"Monsieur,  I  beg  of  you  to  believe  that  if  I  haven't 
already  done  so,  it  isn't  through  any  hesitation  of 
which  a  man  might  be  ashamed." 

"I've  always  been  a  fair  judge  of  a  brave  man,  my 
friend." 

"Thank  you.  .  .  .  No,  it  is  something  else. 
Though,  after  all,  I  don't  know  precisely  whether  I 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  441 

ought  to  be  ashamed  of  it  or  not.  .  .  .  Look  here. 
Shall  I  confess  that  all  this  while  I've  had  my  hands 
in  my  pockets  merely  in  the  interests  of  self-preserva- 
tion?" 

"Of  self-preservation? " 

"Of  nothing  else,  parbleu!  .  .  .  Soon  after  my  ar- 
rival here,  I  began  to  surmise  that  you  were  aware  of 
the  second  object  of  my  visit — the  one  that  didn't 
concern  my  brother.  From  my  observations,  I  pre- 
sumed that  you  were  one  who  would  meet  a  dilemma 
at  least  half-way.  That  you  would  be  the  very  man 
to  recall  the  useful  adage,  'It's  the  first  shot  that 
counts.'  .  .  ." 

"The  candle  is  out,  Monsieur  Cristofores.  But  if 
you  wish  you  can  move  to  another  spot,  as  I  have 
done,  and  go  on  talking.  With  these  echoes,  one's 
voice  might  come  from  anywhere.  Only,  be  careful 
of  the  pitfall.  It  was  just  before  you,  as  you  were 
standing  when  I  last  saw  you.  ..." 

"Why  do  you  insist  on  giving  me  that  advantage, 
Monsieur?" 

"It's  not  an  advantage.  I  merely  put  you  on 
equal  ground  with  myself.  No  duel  is  a  duel,  I  take 
it,  unless  the  ground  is  equal.  As  you  were  saying?  " 

The  Camorrista  did  not  reply  till  Ghirlaine's  heart 
had  thumped  a  score  of  times.  Then: 

"Monsieur,  when  I  came  to  Torregiante,  I  ex- 
pected to  find  a  simpler  situation.  A  rich  man,  living 
here  for  purposes  of  his  own — a  'big  piece,'  as  we  say, 
much  like  the  general  run  of  big  pieces.  But  instead 
I  found  a  man  in  rough  clothes  working  among  these 


442  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

pig-sties  like  a  hundred  devils,  trying  to  pull  these 
poor  brutes  out  of  their  predicament,  doing  the  work 
of  my  own  countrymen  for  nothing.  As  I  should 
never  have  been  tempted  to  do  it.  As  no  one  else 
of  my  acquaintance  would  have  been  tempted  to  do 
it,  who  was  not  a  doctor  or  a  soldier  under  orders. 

"Name  of  God !  If  I  wouldn't  have  done  it,  at  least 
I  could  appreciate  it !  You  were  a  fool  to  risk  your 
life  that  way,  for  beasts  who  could  never  know  how 
much  you  were  staked  to  lose — but  it  was  a  splendid 
kind  of  folly,  Monsieur!  The  kind  we  others  some- 
times dream  of  being  capable  of.  The  kind  a  man 
wonders  at,  and  envies. 

"In  a  word,  you  weren't  the  one  I  had  expected 
to  find.  It  wouldn't  do.  If  I  had  come  before  the 
cholera,  well  and  good;  for  I  should  never  have  known 
the  man  I  was  killing.  How  often,  I  wonder,  do  we 
know  the  man  we're  killing?  .  .  . 

"But  after  the  cholera?  Does  one  stab  at  a  man 
who  has  just  clambered  out  of  the  sea,  after  saving 
one's  brother?  For,  in  effect,  these  are  my  brothers. 
Society  has  turned  down  its  thumbs  on  them,  as  it 
has  on  me,  though  in  another  way.  They  are  my 
brothers,  and  you  have  been  good  to  them.  And  at 
the  same  time,  you've  been  good  to  yourself! 

"  In  Naples,  Monsieur,  I'm  known  as  a  man  of  my 
word.  Perhaps  when  a  rich  man  has  to  leave  his 
wife  and  children  and  valuables  alone  in  his  villa 
at  Posilipo  he  sends  for  me,  we  arrange  the  price, 
and  my  word  is  given  for  their  safety.  After  that,  so 
long  as  he's  away,  his  family  could  go  to  bed  with 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  443 

doors  and  windows  open,  and  the  lowest  man  who 
leads  the  free  life  in  Naples  wouldn't  even  loiter  at 
their  gates.  When  I  say,  'This  man  is  safe,'  he  is 
safe. 

"Now,  Monsieur,  I  tell  you  this.  For  the  sake  of 
the  cholera  days  in  Torregiante,  you  are  safe,  hence- 
forth, from  all  annoyance  of  the  Camorra.  And 
your  lady  is  safe.  And  all  your  household.  And  the 
man  who  said  'no'  to  that  would  reckon  with  me, 
Angielo  Cristofores.  And  there  are  very  few,  I 
think,  in  Naples,  who  would  care  to  reckon  with 
Angielo  Cristofores." 

He  stopped,  hesitated,  and  cleared  his  throat,  as 
if  embarrassed.  In  the  end: 

"Look  here,  Monsieur.  I —  If  you  care  to  forget 
where  I  have  dipped  my  fingers  from  time  to  time, 
I  should  like  to  shake  hands  with  you.  The  left 
hand,  if  you  still  have  doubts.  It  would  be  a  sat- 
isfaction." 

A  pause.  .  .  .  Was  it  a  trick?  .  .  . 

Footsteps  sounded.  In  the  dusky  vestibule  Ghir- 
laine  drew  back.  The  Camorrista  emerged,  and 
walked  away  quickly  through  the  shadows.  And 
dimly  she  saw  Sebastian  close  at  hand,  peering  down 
at  her. 

"What  are  you  here  for?" 

She  gave  no  answer.  He  raised  his  head,  and 
looked  round  him. 

"Which  way  did  he  go?" 

She  made  a  gesture,  and  let  her  hand  fall  limply. 

He  said: 


444  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Let's  get  back  to  the  house." 

They  returned  to  the  villa. 

It  was  already  night.  The  blue-black  sky  was  full 
of  stars,  and  these  the  sea  faintly  reflected  from  a 
myriad  ripples  —  covered,  one  would  say,  as  by  a 
glittering  net.  The  flowers  of  the  terrace  gave  forth 
a  stronger,  sweeter  perfume  than  in  daytime.  In  the 
groves,  a  nightingale  was  warbling.  And  out  of  the 
illimitable  zenith  something  immense  and  soft  and 
fragrant,  like  a  vast  kiss,  embraced  the  odorous  earth. 

Far  below  shone  the  warm  lights  of  the  village  and 
the  steam-boat.  Little  sparks  of  yellow,  they  sent 
their  signals  up  to  this  towering  headland  as  if  out  of 
a  void  that  held  another  world.  A  world  that  these 
two  had  passed  through  —  that  these  two  had  been 
forced,  in  passing  through,  to  comprehend,  before 
they  could  stand  here,  with  all  their  most  subtle 
faculties  rousing  to  wakefulness. 

That  world,  which  those  lights  seemed  to  epito- 
mize! He,  for  his  part,  turned  back  in  contem- 
plation of  its  ignorance  and  cruelty,  its  folly  and 
depravity.  Almost  in  its  true  colors  he  saw  it  now. 
He  wondered  whether,  at  this  moment,  he  might 
have  seen  it  altogether  truly  if,  like  a  psychic  medium 
who  reads  some  human  riddle,  he  could  have  held 
her  hand  awhile? 

The  words  escaped  him: 

"So  the  old  man  was  right!" 

She  faced  him  slowly,  as  if  returning  from  a  dis- 


"What  old  man?" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  445 

"Some  one  you  never  knew,  I  think.  An  old 
philosopher  near  Rome.  John  Elzevir." 

"I've  heard  his  name.    What  did  he  say?" 

Sebastian  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  portico. 
She  remained  standing  there,  shining  dimly  in  the 
starlight,  staring  at  his  indistinct  visage. 

"What  did  he  say?" 

And  Sebastian  repeated: 

"'For  always,  though  he  may  not  know  it,  man  is 
hunting,  hunting,  hunting,  perhaps  through  his  error 
in  the  very  mire  of  debauchery,  for  the  inestimable 
jewel.  The  talisman  to  unlock  all  things  that  are 
necessary  for  us,  in  this  world.  .  .  .": 

She  did  not  move.     And  presently  he  went  on : 

"But  it  was  another  old  man,  here  in  Torregiante, 
who  uttered  the  complement  of  that  speech." 

"What?" 

"In  short,  that  it  was  useless  for  some  to  hunt. 
*  Since  nothing  comes  to  us  that  is  not  of  the  nature 
of  ourselves.  .  .  .'" 

For  a  while  she  was  silent.     At  last  : 

"One  must  rise!" 

He  looked  up  at  her  face,  which  seemed,  in  the 
star-light,  to  have  a  new,  celestial  quality.  Again 
he  shook  his  head. 

"Too  far.  The  inestimable  jewel  would  have  to 
hang  lower  than  it  does.  It  would  have  to  hang  too 
low.  Do  the  divine  white  stars  come  down  to  touch 
the  earth?" 

Suddenly  she  stretched  out  her  arm. 

"There!     On  the  horizon." 

"An  illusion." 


446  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"What  else  is  anything?" 

"The  horizon,  unhappily,  is  always  the  same  dis- 
tance from  us." 

"And  yet,  all  our  happiness,  all  our  real  happiness, 
is  in  struggling  on  toward  it.  And  since  that  is  so, 
who  shall  dare  to  say  that  some  day  we  may  not  at- 
tain it?  ...  See  where  they  bend  down  there,  and 
meet  the  earth.  Heaven  and  water  mingle  there. 
That  which  has  always  been  serene  mingles  with  what 
has  often  been  convulsed.  What  has  always  been 
serene?  But  even  the  still  stars  have  known  their 
cataclysms!" 

He  came  to  his  feet.  But  the  portico  stood 
empty.  She  was  gone. 

Presently  he  went  down  into  the  groves.  And  Nat- 
ure enveloped  him  more  closely,  more  personally, 
than  ever.  The  rustle  of  the  leaves  was  like  a 
whisper  for  his  ear.  The  obscurity  gave  forth,  now 
and  then,  as  it  were  the  suggestion  of  some  presence, 
at  once  infinitely  remote  and  exquisitely  intimate. 
He  thought  of  Saint  Giosue.  "For  this  was  the  Isle 
of  Life:  and  the  voices  of  the  Old  Ones  troubled 
me.  .  .  ."  He  stood  still,  looked  round  him,  and 
said  aloud,  grinning  painfully,  with  one  more  flicker 
of  cynicism: 

"Then  in  such  a  famous  place,  is  it  too  much  to  ask 
some  sign — some  trifling  miracle?  " 

But  he  heard  again  the  quavering  voice  of  Don 
Vigilio : 

"From  within,  not  from  without.  We  ourselves 
are  the  field,  if  we  but  cleared  away  the  weeds.  ..." 

"Too  little  time,  even  if  the  reward  were  sure! 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  447 

Any  hour,  now,  they  may  be  here.  Something  tells 
me  that  at  this  moment  they're  well  on  their  way  at 
last." 

For  now  that  his  anxiety  concerning  the  cholera 
and  the  Camorrista  was  ended,  he  had  a  sense  of 
foreboding  more  profound  than  hitherto.  Was  it 
not  that  his  hour  had  almost  struck? 

What  would  happen  then?    He  reflected: 

"  From  the  stand-point  of  the  world  up  there,  my 
insanity  has  done  for  both  of  us.  But  she  will 
have  gained  nothing  in  return.  While  I,  at  least, 
have  gained  something." 

For  he  felt  that  he  was  no  longer  the  man  he  had 
been.  And  he  would  never  have  believed  that  such 
a  feeling  could  have  brought  him  exultation. 

Yet  it  had  brought  him  exultation  in  the  very 
midst  of  his  despair.  For  he  had  already  perceived 
himself  to  be  an  ampler,  a  more  universal  being.  He 
had  almost  entered  those  fields  of  emotion  which 
so  many  others  knew.  He  had  glimpsed  what  had 
so  chafed  him,  and  embittered  him,  in  the  past,  be- 
cause he  could  not  see  it.  And  he  had  risen  a  little 
way  toward  the  inestimable  jewel. 

"But  only  to  see  it  vanish  forever,  to-morrow,  next 
day!" 

Far  better  to  put  such  thoughts  out  of  his  mind, 
and  prepare  to  end  his  career,  as  they  would  say, 
"consistently." 

Still,  at  dawn,  instead  of  such  preparations,  he 
wended  his  way  across  the  uplands  toward  the  her- 
mit's hut. 


448  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

The  hermit  was  sitting  before  his  door.  His  hands, 
entwined  with  the  coarse  rosary,  lay  idle  in  the  lap 
of  his  brown  robe.  His  head  was  bowed  forward,  so 
that  his  long  hah*  hung  about  his  face.  But  at 
length  he  raised  his  head,  let  his  melancholy  young 
eyes  roam  round,  and  saw  Sebastian  standing  under 
the  sweet-lemon  tree.  The  visitor  advanced,  and  sat 
down  beside  the  hermit. 

"Well,  my  friend,  how  goes  it  to-day?  Do  you 
move  forward?" 

The  recluse  considered  this  question  for  a  while, 
then  answered,  in  dull  tones: 

"  God  forgive  me — as  a  man  goes  forward  who  still 
finds  that  he  drags  heavy  chains." 

"Ah!  Perhaps  because,  after  all,  you're  over- 
young  to  try  this  road?  It's  only  when  we're  old,  I 
fancy,  that  those  chains  begin  to  fall  from  us." 

The  hermit  made  a  sudden  gesture. 

"There  is  no  virtue  in  release,  unless  we've  fought 
for  it." 

Sebastian  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Pardon  the  opinion,  but  aren't  you,  in  the  last 
analysis,  just  fighting  human  nature?" 

The  other  smiled  bitterly,  but  did  not  reply  at  once. 
Near  by,  on  a  rock  aglisten  with  mica,  a  butterfly, 
fresh  from  its  cocoon,  was  slowly  airing  its  cerulean- 
blue  wings.  When  he  had  stared  for  a  time  at  this 
insect,  the  hermit  said,  in  a  low  voice: 

"If  that  were  all!  ...  No:  if  it  were  only  nature, 
I  shouldn't  be  here.  In  my  case,  nature  has  got  so 
mixed  up  with  perversity  that  there's  been — that 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  449 

there  is  still — no  question  of  the  one  without  the 
other." 

He  paused,  looked  at  Sebastian  askance,  and  went 
on  quietly,  though  his  voice  was  unsteady: 

"  Up  there,  it  was  always  depravity  that  attracted 
me  most  strongly.  The  curious,  the  abnormal,  the 
vicious.  I  was  aware  of  this.  I  wasn't  like  those 
who  blacken  their  souls  as  it  were  unconsciously. 
All  the  while,  I  perceived  the  Ideal,  far  above  me, 
dim  but  constant.  And  nothing  that  I  did  in  dis- 
accord with  that  ideal  brought  me  anything  but 
misery.  Yet  I  was  unable  to  act  otherwise!  Al- 
ways it  was  perversity  that  drew  me,  that  nauseated 
me,  and  yet  held  me  tight,  that  gave  me  a  terrible 
satisfaction  and  a  terrible  remorse.  You  can  hardly 
understand  such  a  state  of  things,  no  doubt." 

Sebastian  made  no  reply.  On  the  mica-streaked 
rock,  the  blue  butterfly  slowly  aired  its  wings.  The 
recluse  went  on: 

"Then  there  came  across  my  path  a  certain  one 
who  contained,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  all  the  condensed 
evil  of  the  world.  The  Scarlet  Woman  personified, 
full  of  a  most  perilous  poison,  and  poisoning  all  she 
looked  at.  And  though  I  recognized  her  at  once  for 
what  she  was,  I  could  not  escape.  The  supreme  evil 
in  her  effected  in  me  the  supreme  fascination.  She 
was  all  of  cruelty,  and  ruthlessness,  and  spiritual 
death,  in  one  body — and  I  embraced  her.  And  it 
was  not  till  she  threw  me  away  with  a  laugh  .  .  . 

"Even  then  I  wasn't  cured.  For  it  was  she,  not  I, 
who  had  tired.  And  of  course  it  is  always  the  one 
who  tires  that  forgets. 


450  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"I  pursued  her.  What  ignominy!  The  harsh 
words  of  servants  made  insolent  by  their  mistress's 
contempt !  Doors  shut  in  my  face,  then  the  sight  of 
the  successor  entering!  Long  vigils  beneath  lighted 
windows,  in  the  rain,  and  then  the  light  extinguished ! 
...  I  went  through  all  that,  many  times.  I  was 
like  a  man  who  has  been  thrust  out  of  an  Inferno, 
scorched  and  maimed,  yet  struggles  frantically  to  get 
back.  .  .  .  But  you  won't  understand  me!" 

Sebastian  said  nothing.  Under  the  wild-olive  trees, 
another  blue  butterfly  was  fluttering  now,  amid  the 
thick-sown  marigolds.  The  hermit  continued : 

"One  night  in  Rome,  after  such  a  scene,  I  was 
dragging  my  feet  at  random  through  the  misty 
streets.  I  came  to  the  door  of  a  great  house,  some 
palace  perhaps,  and  the  portone  was  ablaze  with 
torches.  It  was  a  festa:  carriages  were  drawing  up. 
Still  dazed,  I  stood  in  the  gutter,  among  the  beggars 
and  the  poor  folk,  without  knowing  that  I  was  there, 
and  watched  the  people  going  in. 

"And  all  at  once,  there  alighted  from  one  automo- 
bile a  woman,  tall,  fair,  shining,  who  should  have  worn 
great  wings — a  woman  with  the  face  of  an  angel. 
And  at  the  sight  of  such  a  face,  something  broke  in 
my  heart.  I  said  to  myself:  'And  what  I  am  forced 
to  choose!  And  what  I  am  forced  to  choose!  .  .  .' 
I  sank  down  against  the  wall :  I  had  eaten  nothing  all 
day;  my  last  copper  had  gone  in  following  that  other. 
Some  poor  neighbors,  who  thought  I  was  ill,  took  me 
into  their  house.  There  was  a  crucifix  before  the 
bed,  and  I  prayed  for  deliverance,  as  I  had  never 
prayed  before.  And  next  day  I  set  out  afoot,  on  this 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  451 

pilgrimage,  hoping  to  find  deliverance  at  the  end  of 
it.  And  I  think  that  if  my  brother  troubles  me  no 
more,  some  day  I  shall.  But  God  draws  close  to 
some,  and  stays  close  to  some,  more  readily  than  to 
others." 

He  was  silent.  The  blue  butterfly  from  beneath 
the  wild-olive  trees  joined  the  butterfly  on  the  rock. 
And  together,  fluttering,  they  rose  into  the  air,  and 
grew  small  against  the  bright  sky  of  the  new  day. 

Sebastian  went  down  through  the  olive-groves, 
toward  the  village,  thinking  that  this  man's  past  was 
but  the  more  enlightened  duplicate  of  his  own,  and 
that  a  very  similar  influence  had  meant  for  both  the 
turning-point.  "Tall  and  shining,  who  should  have 
worn  great  wings,  with  the  face  of  an  angel.  ..." 

In  the  village,  all  was  changed:  Torregiante  seemed 
Torregiante  no  longer.  The  carabineers  paced  the 
esplanade  in  pairs.  The  hospital  orderlies  were 
emerging  from  alleyways  that  they  left  white  with 
disinfectant.  Behind  the  houses,  mattresses  and 
bed-steads  were  being  burned.  On  the  eastern 
promontory,  some  doctors,  clad  in  white  duck, 
smoking  cigarettes,  were  talking  with  Don  Vigilio. 

While  making  for  the  parish-house,  Sebastian 
passed  them.  They  intercepted  him,  to  offer  fresh 
compliments.  Their  chief,  an  erect,  long-nosed  little 
man  with  the  mustache  and  peaked  beard  of  a  cav- 
alier, became  lyrical  in  his  praise. 

"With  nothing  at  hand — but  absolutely  nothing — 
you  contrived  the  basic  remedies.  It  was  colossal, 
Signore!  Given  a  few  days  more,  I  suspect  you 
would  have  found  opium.  ..." 


452  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Sebastian  listened  absent-mindedly.  "When  they 
stopped,  he  thanked  them,  and  went  on.  He  had 
hardly  seen  them. 

One  said: 

"A  strange  man." 

Another  inquired: 

"A  Russian,  did  you  say?" 

And  a  third: 

"Let's  hope  we  catch  a  sight  of  his  wife." 

"Do  you  know,  by  the  way,  their  being  cast  up 
here  is  highly  curious?  Especially  since  it  was  just 
about  that  time  ..." 

Sebastian  entered  the  parish-house,  and  went  to 
Little  Paganni's  cot. 

The  boy  was  awake.  His  large  eyes,  mobile  once 
more,  turned  from  black  to  clear  blue,  when  they  per- 
ceived Sebastian.  His  brows  contracted;  then  his 
lips  parted  in  a  faint  smile.  He  said,  weakly: 

"Signuri,  these  strangers  in  their  white  clothes 
annoy  us  men  in  here,  with  their  foolish  goings  on. 
They  stick  a  glass  needle  in  my  mouth.  You  didn't 
do  that  when  I  was  sick.  Why  do  they  do  it,  then, 
when  I'm  well  again?  Next  time  I  shall  do  like  old 
Ilario.  He  bit  the  glass  needle  in  two,  and  spat  it 
out  at  them.  And  he  said  things  very  useful  when 
one's  dealing  with  donkeys." 

Sebastian  sat  down,  and  took  Little  Paganni's 
hand. 

"And  how  do  you  feel  now,  Pan?" 

"Tired  of  this  house.  I  like  the  trees  better. 
What  will  become  of  the  goats?  Are  they  penned  in 
some  cellar?  All  this  day,  I've  thought  I  heard  them 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  453 

bleating  for  me  to  let  them  out.  It  was  terrible !  They 
need  the  open.  No  more  was  I  made  to  be  cooped 
up  in  so  small  a  place,  Signuri!" 

"So  I  think  also,  Little  Paganni.  In  fact,  if  it 
lay  with  me  ...  Tell  me;  you're  not  afraid  of  me 
any  more?" 

The  boy  turned  his  head  away  fretfully. 

"Eh!  Why  did  you  make  me  think  of  all  that 
again?" 

He  looked  down  at  his  breast. 

"Anyway,  I  still  have  on  my  amulet." 

"It  didn't  keep  you  from  catching  the  cholera." 

"Perhaps  not.     But  it  made  me  well." 

He  looked  sideways  at  Sebastian  with  his  elfin  eyes, 
then  added,  slowly: 

"My  babba  says  it  was  you!" 

"Very  foolish  of  him,  I'm  sure." 

"So  I  say  to  myself.  Not  to  him.  .  .  .  My 
mamma  also.  She  says  I  must  remember  you  al- 
ways in  my  prayers  to  the  Madonna.  What  do 
you  think  about  that,  Signuri?" 

"That  it  would  probably  be  a  waste  of  your  val- 
uable time." 

"Well.  .  .  .  That  wasn't  my  thought,  exactly.  I 
said  to  myself  that  if  I  spoke  of  you,  the  Madonna 
might  not  be  any  too  pleased.  One  has  to  look  out 
what  kind  of  language  one  uses  before  the  Madonna. 
Swearing  by  mistake,  or  mentioning  'pig,'  or  bringing 
in  the  names  of  people  she's  not  friendly  with —  Un- 
less, of  course,  to  ask  an  apoplexy  on  them " 

"Might  get  one  into  hot  water." 


454  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"That's  it,  Signuri.  So  that's  settled.  .  .  .  Now, 
I  think  I  should  like  to  go  to  sleep.  Since  there's 
nothing  better  to  do." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  his  childish  face,  sur- 
rounded by  auburn  curls,  soon  became  placid.  But 
Sebastian  sat  there  for  half  an  hour  longer,  holding 
the  small  hand  that  Little  Paganni  had  forgotten  to 
withdraw. 

Meanwhile,  on  the  northern  cliffs,  Ghirlaine  was 
looking  out  toward  Italy. 

She  was  surprised  to  find  the  sea  still  empty. 

Ever  since  the  coming  of  the  doctors,  the  other 
world,  till  lately  as  if  buried  forever  beneath  that  far 
horizon,  had  been  creeping  in  across  the  glittering 
waves.  All  morning,  she  had  been  enveloped  closer 
and  closer  with  old  influences.  Was  not  the  dream 
on  the  very  point  of  changing  into  reality,  reality 
about  to  change  into  the  dream? 

The  breeze  sighed  through  the  rich-hued  foliage. 
The  brilliant  flowers  nodded  on  the  brink.  The 
warm  sunshine  lay  on  rock  and  water,  gilding  the 
fantastic  contours  of  the  cliffs  with  an  unnatural 
splendor,  painting  the  waves  with  a  more  poignant 
blue  than  nature's.  And  that  expanse  of  mobile 
blue  seemed  infinite  no  longer,  but  all  too  narrow — 
for  one  who  did  not  dare  to  face  the  future. 

An  hour  passed.  .  .  . 

Directly  hi  the  north,  a  faint  smudge  of  smoke 
appeared. 

Another  hour,  in  which  she  scarcely  moved.  .  .  . 

Now  she  descried  through  the  binoculars  a  white- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  455 

hulled  yacht,  with  yellow  woodwork,  that  came  on  re- 
lentlessly. Every  moment,  its  black  smoke  was 
whipped  away  and  scattered,  in  wide-sailing  films. 
Its  brass  fittings  flashed,  as  the  bow  went  up  and 
down.  On  its  deck  were  spots  of  black  and  white. 

The  yacht  turned  out,  in  order  to  make  a  wide  de- 
tour round  the  western  headland.  Its  length  was  ex- 
posed. She  saw  tiny  figures.  Perhaps  half  a  dozen 
in  dark  garments.  Two  hi  light  clothes,  who  stood 
together  aft.  Sometimes  the  dark  figures  moved. 
The  two  white  figures  remained  motionless,  close  to 
the  stiff  Italian  flag. 

She  could  distinguish  nothing  more.  But  she  was 
sure  that  one  of  the  white  figures  was  Sangallo. 

She  ran  through  the  thickets  to  the  villa,  dizzy, 
sick  with  dread,  but  driven  by  the  thought  that  she 
would  see  them  clearly,  when  they  had  rounded  the 
headland.  In  the  portico,  leaning  against  a  pillar, 
the  glasses  pressed  to  her  tumultuous  bosom,  she 
waited. 

Once  she  cast  her  eyes  toward  the  village.  She 
saw,  far  below,  Sebastian  climbing  the  hill-path. 
Half-way  up,  he  turned  in,  and  disappeared  among 
the  trees.  He  was  going  to  the  northern  cliffs.  He 
would  miss  sighting  them.  He  would  not  know  they 
had  arrived.  After  all,  the  supreme  moment  would 
find  him  unprepared ! 

The  yacht  rounded  the  headland.  Now,  through 
the  glasses,  she  saw  with  startling  distinctness.  There 
were  men  in  blue  caps  and  jerseys.  Two  others,  one 
in  white  flannels,  one  in  a  light  travelling-suit.  The 


456  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

first  handed  a  pair  of  binoculars  to  the  second,  who 
raised  them  before  his  face. 

The  first  was  Sangallo. 

The  man  in  the  travelling-suit  lowered  the 
glasses.  .  .  . 

Her  own  binoculars  crashed  on  the  pavement  of 
the  portico.  Swaying,  she  caught  at  the  pillar  for 
support. 

The  second  man  was  Vincent  Pamfort. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

SHE  found  Sebastian  before  the  temple,  on  the  edge 
of  the  sheer  precipice,  staring  asea.  Against  the 
blue,  his  tall  figure  showed  an  unnatural  decrepi- 
tude, as  if  at  last  his  physical  powers  had  begun  to 
fail  him.  And  at  her  approach,  he  turned  to  her  a 
face  that  startled  her  even  at  this  moment,  a  face 
suddenly  older,  almost  ugly,  dull,  in  which,  as  it 
were,  a  light  had  been  extinguished.  He  looked  like 
a  man  who  had  just  been  listening  to  his  death- 
warrant. 

So,  as  she  halted  before  him,  she  felt  that  he  must 
know  already  of  the  arrival  of  the  rescuers.  It  was 
easier,  on  that  account,  to  begin  her  plea: 

"I  think  I've  never  asked  anything  of  you  yet. 
But  now  I  ask  you,  let  there  be  no  more  horrors. 
Since  they're  here  at  last,  let  them  come  up  hi  peace." 

He  stared  at  her. 

"I  don't  understand." 

She  repeated: 

"Since  they're  here " 

"Since  who's  here?" 

"Then  you  haven't  seen  them!" 

He  continued  to  stare,  almost  stupidly. 

"Then  you  haven't  seen  the  yacht!" 

For  an  instant,  his  eyes  lighted  terribly.  His 
voice  sounded,  harsh  and  ragged: 

457 


458  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Sangallo!    That's  it?" 

Nerving  herself  for  what  she  had  to  accomplish: 

"That's  it.    They're  close  to  land  already." 

He  laughed,  in  a  way  to  turn  her  cold. 

"Why,  just  in  the  nick  of  time!" 

Beside  herself,  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
cried: 

"No!" 

He  stepped  back,  shaking  off  her  hand.  He  re- 
coiled from  her,  as  if  he  feared  that  touch,  that  first 
voluntary  contact  which  had  ever  come  from  her 
to  him.  Then  his  disordered  features  became  dull 
again. 

"So  they've  not  yet  landed?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Then  we  still  have  tune  for  one  more  talk.  Let's 
sit  down  somewhere.  I  must  get  off  my  feet.  The 
fact  is,  I'm  done  up.  I've  been  going  too  long. 
And,  rather  inopportunely,  I've  come  to  the  reac- 
tion." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  temple,  and  seated  himself 
on  one  of  the  fallen  columns  that  lay  against  the 
mossy  wall.  When  she  still  remained  standing,  he 
looked  up  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"Pardon  me  for  being  uncivilized  to  the  last." 

She  made  a  quick  gesture  of  distress,  and  glanced 
round  her  apprehensively.  He  went  on,  still  smiling : 

"Come:  humor  me  once  more.  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  Hunt  Meeting  in  the  Campagna,  the  herds- 
man's hut,  the  bench  by  the  door?  You  hesitated 
then,  too.  I  persuaded  you,  I  think,  by  saying, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  459 

'Kindness  will  never  seem  amiss  in  you.'  Nor  will 
it  even  now,  when  there's  so  much  less  excuse  for 
kindness.  ..." 

She  sat  down  on  the  fallen  column,  leaned  forward, 
and  stared  into  his  face.  She  seemed  to  be  looking 
not  at  the  iron  creature  that  had  been  Sebastian 
Maure,  but  at  another,  who  was  crumbling  to  pieces 
before  her  eyes. 

"You're  ill,"  she  said. 

"I'm  worn  out.    What  does  it  matter?  .  .  . 

"I  only  want  you  to  know  that  I  realize  all  I've 
done.  That  I  understand  the  enormity  of  the  whole 
thing.  How  far  it  goes  beyond  excuse. 

"That  night,  in  the  villa,  I  showed  you  how  I  had 
excused  myself.  I  said:  'A  man  desires  a  woman. 
Everything  rises  up  to  oppose  him.  He  breaks 
through  all  opposition  and  takes  her.  And  that's 
what  every  man,  who  has  loved  and  been  denied, 
would  do  if  he  had  the  courage.  .  .  .' 

"I  was  a  fool.  I  spoke  knowing  men,  possibly, 
but  without  knowing  women.  For  I've  never  known 
women.  I've  had  something  to  do  with  them,  but 
I've  never  known  them.  For  always  I've  gravitated 
to  the  sort — and  they  exist  in  every  stratum  of 
society — who  were  only  what  I  wanted  them  to  be. 
And  if,  by  any  chance,  another  influence  began 
to  change  them,  to  make  them  what  I  didn't  want 
them  to  be,  that  was  the  moment  when  something, 
Fate,  if  you  will,  separated  our  paths  forever." 

He  paused.  There  rose  before  him  the  picture  of 
the  great  glittering  state  apartments  in  the  Palazzo 


460  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Campobasso,  the  thronging  guests,  and  Mme.  Se*- 
madeni,  robed  in  green  satin,  her  bosom  covered  with 
emeralds,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  with  an  inscrutable 
sadness.  And  their  words  returned  to  him.  "Se- 
bastian, you  are  not  happy.  ..."  "That  is  easily 
remedied?  .  .  ."  "  Good-night,  my  poor  friend.  .  .  ." 

He  nodded,  and  said  aloud: 

"As  if  it  was  my  destiny  never  to  learn  then,  from 
personal  experience,  that  women  could  be  otherwise. 
That  there  were  some  who  could  never  be  taken 
so.  .  .  ." 

Leaning  his  head  against  the  temple  wall,  he  closed 
his  eyes.  His  face  was  colorless,  and  almost  ghastly. 
He  seemed  physically  ill.  But  he  went  on,  abruptly, 
in  an  unnaturally  distinct,  hard  voice: 

"I  knew  nothing  of  women.  Nothing!  Noth- 
ing! All  my  life,  then*  real  selves  had  avoided  me. 
I  had  met  with  only  the  part  of  them  that  my  bru- 
tality wanted  to  meet.  I  had  seen  only  the  part  of 
them  that  my  perversity  wanted  to  see.  And  they 
had  shown  me  nothing  else.  Why  should  they?  The 
great  mysteries  of  the  sanctuaries  are  for  those  who 
have  purified  themselves  at  the  gates.  And  I  had 
always  come  in  polluted.  I  never  got  farther  than 
the  forecourt  of  that  temple.  .  .  . 

"Nothing  happens  to  us  that  is  not  of  the  nature 
of  ourselves.  .  .  . 

"Yet  I  met  you! 

"Why  should  our  paths  have  crossed?  Why, 
when  they  had,  shouldn't  it  have  been  as  it  had 
always  been  before,  when  I'd  crossed  the  path  of  a 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  461 

being  not  of  the  nature  of  myself?  For  consistency's 
sake,  I  ought  to  have  passed  straight  on. 

"And  yet,  I'd  never  known  a  desire  for  anything 
even  vaguely  comparable  to  what  I  felt  in  that  first 
moment,  in  the  midst  of  that  French  country-side, 
at  the  Montlherys'  chateau. 

"And  you  surely  felt  the  strength  of  that  in  me! 
At  that  instant,  suddenly  you  were  badly  shocked, 
and  possibly  frightened.  Did  you  feel,  too,  as  if 
things  had  all  at  once  gone  strangely  wrong?  As  if 
we'd  had  there  an  emotional  contact  that  Fate  should 
never  logically  have  produced?" 

He  remained  silent  for  a  while,  looking  before  him 
heavily  at  the  flowers  on  the  brink. 

"Well,  nothing  that  I've  ever  met  with  in  life  has 
been  consistent.  Except  you!  .  .  . 

"For  you  have  always  been  the  fixed  star. 
Through  everything  unchanged.  And  to-day  I'm 
able  to  appreciate  that  radiance  for  what  it  is. 
Once  I  depreciated  it,  and  scoffed  at  it,  and  insulted 
it.  As  I  see  it  now,  I  wouldn't  have  had  you  other- 


wise. 

it 


I've  found  out  that  all  men,  all,  must  look  up  to 
something,  sooner  or  later.  They  can't  stand  not 
doing  that  forever.  The  instinct  for  worship,  for 
adoration,  is  in  the  last  one  of  us.  This  one  wor- 
ships a  supreme  God.  That  one  some  supreme  form 
of  beauty.  Another,  a  supreme  exactitude  of  science 
or  of  art.  But  always,  sooner  or  later,  something 
above  and  beyond,  that  one  would  like  to  live  by. 
An  ideal  condition  of  things.  An  entity  that  ap- 


462  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

preaches  the  ideal.  ...  But  that  fixed  star  must 
not  grow  dim,  or  smaller. 

"Yet  once  I  struggled  with  all  my  might  to  abase 
that  star!  For  I  didn't  realize  what  it  meant,  what 
it  was  going  to  mean,  or  that  its  supreme  virtue  lay 
in  its  great  distance  above  me.  That  if  I  could  have 
brought  it  down  within  my  reach,  I  should  never 
have  seen  so  far,  over  so  strange  and  wonderful  a 
country,  as  I've  seen  lately  by  the  light  of  it.  ... 

"What  a  fumy  life  it's  been!  Beating  at  nothing 
in  a  fog!  Ploughing  in  circles  in  the  mud!  Break- 
ing and  wrecking  everything,  at  last,  to  prove  one's 
self  on  the  level  of  the  beasts!  .  .  .  What  haven't 
you  been  through!  And  now  I  can't  make  restitu- 
tion. .  .  ." 

He  bowed  his  head.  His  hands  lay  on  his  knees, 
strong  and  yet  delicate,  subtly  ruthless-looking  yet 
informed  with  nobility,  like  a  composite  of  the  hands 
of  many  individuals.  Now  they  lay  outstretched, 
upturned,  half  open,  lax — as  it  were,  in  their  remark- 
able expressiveness,  worn  fine  by  all  their  recent 
work,  incapable  of  returning  again  to  their  old 
violence. 

She  averted  her  eyes  from  them  reluctantly.  He 
was  saying: 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  you  have  only  lost, 
while  I've  done  nothing  but  gain!" 

"I  don't  begrudge  you  that." 

And,  after  pressing  her  handkerchief  against  her 
lips: 

"  I'm  not  what  I  was  when  I  first  came  here,  either. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  463 

I  don't  think  I'm  cruel  any  longer.  I  don't  have 
cruel  thoughts  about  this  time  that's  coming.  What 
you  have  to  go  through — if  I  could  lighten  it,  I  would. 
For  I  understand  things  better  now.  Many  things." 

She  turned  her  hazy  eyes  toward  the  sea. 

"Many  things.  ..." 

He  glanced  up  at  her  white  profile  and  blowing 
golden  hair,  and  at  her  wide-staring,  swimming  eyes. 
He  drew  in  his  breath,  and  murmured  to  himself: 

"'And  at  her  departure,  she  appeared  so  beautiful 
that  she  seemed  already  to  have  become  a  soul  in 
Paradise!'" 

Through  the  sunshine,  close  to  the  nodding  flowers 
of  the  brink,  the  bees  came,  darting  and  poising.  The 
sound  of  their  wings  was  mingled  with  the  increasing 
murmur  of  the  sea.  In  the  temple,  the  Old  Ones 
were  stirring  from  their  sleep.  Ghirlaine  shivered. 

"Why  are  we  here!  So  close  to  such  a  place! 
Where  men  have  been  killed!  Where  who  knows 
what  has  happened!" 

"Where  can  we  go  in  this  world  where  men  haven't 
been  killed,  and  brought  to  life?" 

He  listened.  She  could  hear  nothing  save  the 
droning  of  the  bees,  the  murmur  of  the  sea,  and  the 
low  voices  in  the  temple.  But  he  exclaimed: 

"Our  time  is  up.  .  .  .  And  I've  told  you  nothing!" 

"I  think,"  she  answered,  faintly,  "that  you've  told 
me  a  great  deal." 

"I  should  have  liked  to  find  the  words  to  tell  you 
everything.  But  no  matter.  Only,  when  you  go 
back,  when  you're  suffering  up  tHere  for  what  I've 


464  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

done,  try  not  to  hate  me.  A  contrite  heart!  .  .  . 
Perhaps,  from  all  the  unhappiness  that  may  come  to 
you,  you  can,  if  you  will,  distil  a  certain  balm  by 
means  of  charity?  .  .  . 

"Happiness!  That's  what  we're  all  struggling 
for,  according  to  our  lights.  Remember  that  I,  too, 
was  searching  for  it,  in  the  only  way  that  had  been 
revealed  to  me." 

He  was  silent. 

From  the  underbrush  came  a  crackling  of  twigs. 
On  the  rim  of  the  little  valley,  amid  the  green  leaves, 
Annibale  appeared,  bareheaded,  with  his  rifle.  His 
voice  reached  them,  urgent,  full  of  suppressed  excite- 
ment: 

"Signuri,  a  new  ship  has  come  in.  Two  strangers 
are  climbing  to  the  villa." 

"Two?" 

Sebastian  looked  at  Ghirlaine.  She  said,  almost 
inaudibly: 

"The  other  is  Vincent  Pamfort." 

He  leaned  back  against  the  wall. 

"All  one!    Nothing  matters  now." 

And  to  Annibale: 

"They  are  friends  of  ours.  Let  them  pass.  Make 
them  welcome.  The  Signura  will  see  them  now. 
I'll  come  presently." 

To  Ghirlaine: 

"Go  and  meet  them." 

She  rose,  for  a  moment  stood  there  trembling,  then 
turned  quickly  away,  and  went  to  the  villa. 

On  the  eastern  end  of  the  portico,  she  waited  be- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  465 

tween  the  white  pillars.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
thickly  wooded  slope,  where  the  hill-path  wound  up, 
between  the  fir-trees  all  slanted  in  one  direction  by 
past  gales,  to  lose  itself,  from  time  to  time,  amid  the 
solemn-hued  foliage  of  ilexes  and  cypresses.  Not  far 
from  the  summit  was  a  clearing,  banked  round  with 
cactus  and  aloes,  where,  hi  other  days,  Sebastian  and 
Annibale,  with  weapons  in  their  hands,  had  lain  for 
futile  hours  in  ambush.  Now  Annibale  pointed  to 
this  clearing.  And  she  saw  entering  it  Sangallo  and 
Vincent  Pamfort. 

They  looked  up,  and  halted.  They  perceived  her. 
They  came  on,  climbing  faster.  And  presently  they 
reached  the  summit. 

Sangallo  was  first.  Walking  quickly,  with  his 
light,  springing  step,  he  approached  her  immediately, 
yet  with  an  effect  of  holding  back  till  his  keen  black 
eyes  had  plunged  into  her  soul.  His  clear  olive  skin 
was  pale  against  his  jet-black  beard.  He  was  con- 
taining an  intense  emotion. 

He  sprang  up  on  the  portico,  took  her  hand,  and 
bore  it  to  his  lips.  At  once,  he  stood  back,  and  flashed 
a  swift  look  round  him. 

Vincent  was  standing  before  her. 

He  appeared  thinner  and  more  mature.  His 
straw-colored  mustache  had  been  clipped  short.  His 
face  was  even  more  deeply  tanned  than  formerly, 
and  now  suffused  with  blood.  His  eyeballs  were  red. 
Staring  at  her,  those  eyes  seemed  abnormal,  filmy, 
full  of  something  that  resembled  panic.  She  could 
hardly  recognize  him.  He  seemed  like  a  stranger. 


___ 

X* 

In  V 


466  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

And  all  the  while  that  they  were  staring,  she  kept 
thinking :  "  Why  is  he  here?  Why  did  he  come  here?  " 

And  it  was  she  who  spoke  first: 

"Well,  Vincent.  .  .  ." 

His  lips  moved.  Standing  rigid,  he  jerked  out  the 
words,  in  an  abrupt,  strained  voice  that  she  had 
never  heard  before: 

"  Ghirlaine !    You're  all  right?  " 

This  was  the  meeting  that  she  had  pictured  in  a 
hundred  forms,  but  never  thus! 

Sangallo  stepped  back,  so  softly  and  slowly  that 
neither  of  the  others  noticed  his  withdrawal.  He 
turned  to  Annibale,  who  was  standing  below,  his  rifle 
over  his  arm,  close  to  the  portico,  still  as  a  statue,  his 
smouldering  eyes  focussed  like  burning-glasses  on 
Vincent  Pamfort's  face.  Sangallo  spoke  to  him 
quietly: 

"Where  is  your  master?" 

Reluctantly,  Annibale  transferred  his  scrutiny  to 
Sangallo.  He  measured  the  other  with  deliberation 
from  head  to  foot.  His  eyes  lost  something  of  their 
dangerous  fire. 

"My  master  is  yonder." 

"Take  me  to  him." 

Annibale  sent  one  more  long  stare  at  Vincent 
Pamfort.  Then: 

"Follow  me,  Signuri.    Or  rather,  go  in  front." 

And,  as  he  directed  Sangallo  toward  the  northern 
cliffs,  coolly,  without  the  slightest  subterfuge,  he 
passed  his  hand  over  the  other's  clothes,  and  felt  of 
all  his  pockets. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  467 

Sebastian  was  still  sitting  on  the  fallen  column, 
his  head  against  the  temple  wall.  Annibale,  halting 
before  him,  exclaimed,  in  a  loud,  bitter  voice: 

"Here  is  one  of  your  friends,  Signuri!" 

From  under  his  drooping  eyelids  Sebastian  regarded 
Sangallo  with  his  fixed  smile. 

"Very  well,  Annibale.  Leave  me  with  this  friend 
of  mine." 

"I  am  to  leave  you,  Signuri?" 

"So  I  said." 

The  young  man  drew  a  long  breath  into  his  deep 
chest. 

"  Va  beni,  Signuri.  I  will  go  back  to  the  villa,  to 
your  other  friend,  in  case  he  should  require  any  at- 
tention before  you  come." 

"Do  so.  And  above  all  things,  Annibale,  hos- 
pitality. A  precious  and  ancient  virtue,  known  even 
to  barbarians." 

The  outlaw  departed. 

Sangallo  sat  down  beside  Sebastian,  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

"My  dear  friend!" 

To  that  gesture  the  other  made  no  response,  except 
to  say: 

"  Excuse  me.  For  your  own  benefit.  I've  touched 
no  one,  of  late,  but  cholera  patients.  I  sleep  in  odd 
corners,  and  eat  hi  the  street.  I  begin  to  think  I 
drip  with  bacilli.  It's  become  an  idee  fixe  with  me. 
To  be  sure,  since  the  doctors  came,  I've  drenched 
myself  with  disinfectants.  But  the  habit  persists. 
You  understand." 


468  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Sangallo  clasped  his  hands  across  his  knee,  and 
stared. 

"You're  a  sick  man,  Sebastian!" 

"I?  Not  in  the  least.  Only,  one  can't  go  on  for- 
ever. And  I  don't  sleep  when  I  get  the  chance. 
Light  the  candle  at  both  ends,  you  know.  I'm 
burnt  out,  that's  all.  But  now  that  it's  all  finished, 
I'll  get  my  rest  at  last." 

Sangallo  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  like  your  looks  at  all!" 

Sebastian  smiled  grimly. 

"I'm  not  surprised.  Who  the  devil  does,  at  this 
moment?  " 

"I  tell  you,  you're  a  sick  man!" 

"Well,  I'll  agree  with  you,  if  you  insist.  I'm  sick 
to  the  bone — of  myself.  For  the  sake  of  your  own 
attitude  toward  life,  admit  the  possibilities  of  a  spir- 
itual illness.  Have  we  two  got  to  argue,  at  last,  you 
for  unadulterated  materialism,  and  I  for  the  other 
thing?  Let's  not  wrangle.  I'm  not  up  to  it  to-day." 

He  considered  for  a  while,  and  said: 

"  Here's  one  thing  I  want  to  get  off  my  mind.  One 
night,  she  was  exposed  to  the  cholera  herself.  I 
think  it's  all  right,  you  know.  But  the  time's  not  up 
yet.  Where  are  you  going  to  take  her?" 

"To  Naples.  They'U  let  us  in  there.  They've 
still  got  a  little  cholera  there,  too.  And  Lady 
Maude's  hi  Naples." 

"Oh?  Well,  there  are  some  good  doctors  in 
Naples.  Don't  let  her  go  on  a  ship  just  yet.  Ship's 
doctors — I'd  trust  myself  first!  .  .  .  That's  all  about 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  469 

that.  Just  watch  her.  If  she  seems  out  of  sorts, 
get  the  jump  on  it.  ...  So  Lady  Maude's  in 
Naples.  What  about  her  aunt?" 

"America.     She'd  quite  given  her  up." 

"Ah!  ...  By  the  way,  Ernesto,  if  it's  really  fair 
to  ask,  what  made  you  so  long  in  coming?" 

Sangallo  smoothed  his  black  beard  reflectively,  and 
hesitated. 

"Ebbene,  several  things  made  me  long  in  coming. 
Several  things  very  curiously  interacting.  .  .  . 

"You  surmised,  of  course,  that  the  carabineers 
would  send  in  their  report?  You  gave  a  Russian 
name — I  presume  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  The 
next  moment,  naturally,  you  knew  that  it  would  be 
passed  on  to  the  Russian  Consulate  General  at  Rome. 

"  So  it  was,  in  due  course  of  time.  The  Consulate 
wrote  to  the  Consular  Agent  at  Tunis,  and  to  the 
Bureau  of  Passports  in  Saint  Petersburg.  And  the 
reply  from  the  Bureau,  that  no  such  Russian  was 
travelling,  came,  by  some  error,  not  to  the  Consulate 
General,  but  the  Embassy.  And  since  it  was  sum- 
mer, and  half  the  Embassy  staff  were  away,  Andreas 
Romanovitch  happened  to  be  charge  d'affaires. 

"I  was  in  Piedmont.  He  telegraphed  to  me  at 
once.  My  first  thought  was  the  same  as  his — too 
strong  a  coincidence  not  to  mean  something!  But 
I  knew  what  he  couldn't  have  known:  who  the  man 
might  be.  How  it  might  barely  have  happened. 
Incredible?  But  my  thoughts,  if  you'll  pardon  me, 
had  flashed  out  toward  an  incredible  sort  of  man. 

"I  hurried  to  Rome.     Andreas  had  kept  it  quiet. 


470  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

We  telegraphed  to  Tunis.  We  sent  to  the  Marshal 
of  Carabineers,  here  in  Torregiante,  for  further  par- 
ticulars. We  expected  our  first  answer  in  twelve 
hours.  Meanwhile,  I  wrote  you  that  letter.  On  a 
chance.  To  show  you,  if  it  was  really  you,  that  we 
knew.  As  it  were,  to  pull  you  up  short.  If  possi- 
ble, to  bring  you  a  realization  of  the  rational  world, 
the  consequences.  .  .  . 

"The  twelve  hours  passed,  and  twelve  more.  I 
said  to  Andreas, '  I  can't  stand  this  delay.  I'm  going 
to  Torregiante.'  He  was  tied  to  the  Embassy.  He 
had  to  let  me  set  out  alone. 

"That  night,  in  Naples,  while  waiting  for  them  to 
get  ready  the  boat  that  was  to  bring  me  here,  I 
walked  in  the  Villa  Nazionale,  by  the  sea." 

He  paused,  and  stared  fixedly  before  him.  When 
he  went  on,  reluctantly,  his  voice  was  lower. 

"How  am  I  going  to  make  you  understand  the 
rest?  It's  one  of  the  things  that  aren't  told,  that  I 
shall  probably  never  tell  any  one  else  but  Andreas. 
It's  something  that's  very  difficult  to  put  into  words. 
Something  for  many  to  find  unbelievable,  in  a  sane 
man.  ...  I  give  it  to  you  as  it  happened. 

"I  was  walking  in  the  Villa,  among  the  trees,  with 
the  famt  flash  of  the  sea  showing  through  them.  It 
was  lonely  there,  quite  late.  Even  the  vagabonds 
had  dragged  themselves  away. 

"I  stopped  to  look  through  the  trees,  southward, 
across  the  water.  And  presently,  as  I  stood  there,  I 
felt  coming  to  me  one  of  those  moments  that  I've 
known,  not  often,  but  oftener,  I  think,  than  most 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  471 

men  in  the  parts  of  the  world  we  live  in.  A  moment 
of  half -release  from  physical  encumbrances,  of  strange 
clairvoyance,  of  seeing,  so  to  speak,  into  the  hidden 
heart  of  things.  Now  I  felt  it  coming  to  me  again, 
that  precious  moment.  And  I  told  myself : '  In  a  little 
while  I  shall  know  the  truth.'  For  it  had  never 
played  me  false.  I'd  learned  to  trust  it. 

"  It  came.  There  are  no  words  to  describe  it,  to  one 
who  doesn't  know.  That  expanse  of  water  didn't 
separate  me  any  longer  from  knowledge,  but  linked 
me  with  knowledge.  You  understand  I  saw  nothing 
— no  vision,  or  anything  of  the  sort.  But  I  felt  that 
a  mute  voice,  from  off  there,  had  brought  me  that 
far,  and  yet  was  now  staying  me.  That  there  had 
been  a  call  for  me,  but  that  now  the  call  was  revoked. 
That  something  which  had  wanted  me  at  first  was 
now  pleading  with  me,  from  afar  and  yet  from  very- 
near,  to  come  no  closer.  Unless  I  wanted  to  do  ir- 
reparable harm  instead  of  good.  Unless  I  wanted  to 
arrest  something  that  must  be  developed.  .  .  . 

"It  was  even  as  if  a  great,  overpowering  denial 
had  risen  up  to  oppose  me — a  denial  of  my  right  to 
carry  out  what  I  was  planning. 

"As  I  said,  I  learned  long  ago  to  respect  the  influ- 
ence of  those  moments.  It's  not  reasonable,  judged 
from  our  stand-points  of  reason.  But  what,  after  all, 
is  our  reason?  How  far  does  it  reach?  Beyond  our 
reason  there  is  so  much  that  we  never  perceive, 
unless  at  such  a  time,  when  we  almost  see  through, 
for  one  instant,  into  the  heart  of  things. 

"At  any  rate,  when  it  had  passed,  my  mind  was 


472  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

changed.  I  returned  to  the  harbor,  and  counter- 
manded my  order  for  the  boat.  I  stayed  in  Naples. 
I  sent  no  word  to  Andreas.  He  wouldn't  have  under- 
stood, then. 

"At  last,  waiting  in  Naples,  I  learned  there  was 
cholera  hi  Torregiante.  Cholera!  That  one  word 
upset  my  equilibrium.  It  intruded  on  my  convic- 
tion, and  gave  me  terrible  doubts.  If  I  had  held 
fast,  even  then,  I  should  only  have  been  obeying  the 
dictates  of  that  moment  in  the  Villa  Nazionale.  But 
I  couldn't  hold  fast  any  longer.  Cholera!  And  I 
knew  what  such  islands  were.  Cholera!  I  came 
back  to  earth.  I  became  like  any  man.  I  saw  my- 
self a  wild  fool,  a  madman,  a  murderer.  Still,  even 
while  I  was  telegraphing  to  Pamfort,  I  kept  say- 
ing to  myself:  'You  are  doing  wrong!  -You  are 
disobeying  the  moment  that  has  never  betrayed  you.' 
My  mind  continued  to  be  a  battle-field  till  he  ar- 
rived. .  .  .  And  all  the  time,  as  we  approached 
this  island,  I  kept  repeating:  'Too  soon!  Too 
soon! 

His  voice  had  grown  husky;  finally  it  failed  him. 

"And  now,  God  forgive  me,  I  know  it!" 

Sebastian's  eyes  were  closed.  At  first,  Sangallo 
wondered  if  he  could  be  asleep.  But  presently  he 
murmured: 

"Curious.  .  .  .  You  must  use  that  bit  some  day." 

Sangallo  turned  round  and  laid  his  hand  on  the 
temple  wall. 

"Who's  inside  this  place!" 

"No  one." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  473 

"I  hear  voices." 

"Natural  phenomenon.  Waves.  Echo-well.  Ev- 
erything explicable.  Matter  and  its  aberrations.  ..." 

His  face  was  distorted.  He  made  an  effort  to  get 
up,  sank  back,  and  finally  stood  upright,  unsteady, 
his  cheeks  glistening  with  sweat. 

Sangallo  caught  him  round  the  shoulder. 

"What  you  need  is  a  doctor!" 

"Nonsense.  Let's  get  to  the  house.  He'll  want 
a  few  words  with  me  before  he  goes.  Let's  have  it 
over  with.  ." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

GHIRLAINE  was  alone  with  Vincent  in  the  portico. 

Strangely  detached  from  the  event  she  had  so 
greatly  feared,  she  had  led  him  to  the  wicker  chairs. 
"Come,"  she  had  said,  "sit  down."  And  to  herself: 
"I  suppose  I  must  tell  him,  I  suppose  I  owe  it  to 
him,  and  to  myself,  to  tell  him  how  it  all  happened." 
So,  as  if  recounting  the  story  of  another  woman  who 
had  ceased  to  exist,  she  told  him  of  her  coming  to 
Torregiante.  And  all  the  while,  watching  his  face, 
which  had  grown  strange  to  her,  she  had  realized 
he  was  quite  unable  to  perceive  the  motives  that 
had  shaped  those  hours,  and  that  she  was  unable, 
or  unwilling,  to  force  him  to  perceive  them. 

Their  origin  lay  in  regions  that  he  had  never  passed 
through,  that  he  would  never  approach.  His  face, 
mobile  enough  for  once,  a  prey  to  misery,  fury,  and 
bewilderment,  expressed  comprehension  only  of  the 
enormity  and  outrage  of  the  thing — no  slightest  ap- 
preciation of  its  causes.  For  him  it  was  just  a  night- 
mare, of  which  there  ought  to  be  no  counterpart  in 
life.  And  she,  who  had  felt  at  first  as  he  was  feeling 
now,  but  had  learned  of  late  almost  to  understand, 
kept  thinking,  while  her  lips  went  on  with  that  tale  : 
"Why  do  I  tell  him?  To  understand,  one  must  have 
felt.  And  it  is  not  necessary  that  he  should  under- 
stand. .  .  ." 

474 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  475 

For  unconsciously  her  telling  had  nearly  grown 
into  an  apology  for  the  other. 

She  stopped.  A  long  silence  ensued.  From  the 
beds  of  sweet-marjoram  and  thyme,  on  the  bright- 
hued  terrace,  came  the  humming  of  wild  bees.  And 
that  music  seemed  to  her  still  to  accompany  the 
words:  "I  too  was  searching  for  it,  in  the  only  way 
that  had  been  revealed  to  me." 

But  this  one  could  never  thrill  with  pity  at  the 
poignancy  of  that  confession!  .  .  . 

" Good  God!  What  a  thing  for  you  to  have  gone 
through!" 

His  eyes  grew  redder.  His  clenched  hands  trem- 
bled. In  a  whisper: 

"What  a  blackguard!  What  an  unspeakable 
blackguard!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  lean  figure  quiver- 
ing, and  went  quickly  to  the  eastern  end  of  the 
portico. 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

Some  distance  off,  under  the  trees,  Annibale  was 
squatting,  in  the  attitude  of  a  seated  Arab,  on  the 
grass.  His  rifle  lay  across  his  knees.  With  caress- 
ing fingers,  he  was  softly  working  the  breech-lock 
back  and  forth.  He  looked  up,  and  fixed  his  eyes 
steadily  on  the  "foreigner."  Very  gently  his  right 
hand  went  round  the  rifle-lock,  and  grasped  the  trig- 
ger. His  eyes  became  blank.  His  young,  savagely 
handsome  face  turned  slowly  older-looking,  and 
coldly  cruel. 

"Come   back,"    said    Ghirlaine   in   level   tones. 


476  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Come  back  here,  Vincent.  Sit  down.  We're  not 
through,  yet,  with  this." 

"That  ruffian,  that  ragamuffin  under  the 
trees " 

She  called: 

"Annibale?" 

Annibale,  still  staring  at  the  stranger,  answered, 
calmly: 

"  Sissignura." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"I  am  breathing  the  air,  Signura." 

"Please  go  away." 

Her  voice  broke. 

"Sissignura." 

But  he  continued  in  the  same  attitude,  as  if  carved 
out  of  dark-brown  wood,  staring  unwinkingly  at 
Vincent. 

"Vincent.  .  .  .  Vincent!" 

He  returned  to  her,  and  stood  biting  the  short  ends 
of  his  mustache. 

"Sit  down." 

He  remained  standing,  erect,  slim,  rigid,  one  hand 
on  his  hip. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said,  in  a  low,  steady  voice. 
"Have  we  walked  into  a  trap?  What's  become  of 
Sangallo?" 

"Nothing  will  happen,  Vincent.  I  have  his  word 
that  nothing  will  happen." 

"His  word!" 

He  laughed.  She  flashed  a  strange  look  at  him, 
then  closed  her  eyes.  After  a  while: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  477 

"Won't  you  tell  me  at  least  about  my  aunt?" 

He  started  and  flushed  deeply. 

"Forgive  me,  Ghirlaine.  .  .  .  She's  gone  home. 
She  still  thinks  you  were  lost  in  the  sea.  As  we  all 
thought.  .  .  .  What  a  terrible  time  for  us  that  was! 
Almost  as  terrible " 

"Yes." 

He  pulled  himself  together.  Standing  very 
straight,  his  face  expressionless,  his  eyes  suffused,  he 
got  out,  in  a  strained  voice: 

"You've  been  the  victim  of  terrible  circumstances. 
Of  incredible  things.  Such  things  as  don't  happen. 
That  turn  the  world  upside  down.  But  .  .  .  How 
shall  I  say  it?  .  .  ." 

He  was  struggling  hard  for  expression.  He  was 
trying  with  all  his  powers  to  rise  to  this  moment. 
She  knew  his  nature,  his  inheritance,  his  past  en- 
vironment, all  that  was  trying  to  prevent  him  from 
rising  to  this  moment.  And  she  felt  a  great  com- 
passion, an  intense  desire  to  relieve  him  of  his  task. 
Yet  she  knew  that  he  must  go  on,  and  say  what  he 
was  trying  to  say,  in  order  that  she  might  answer 
him.  She  remained  silent,  looking  up  at  him,  watch- 
ing his  struggle,  full  of  pity. 

She  heard  him  stammering: 

"It  seems  that  such  things  really  come  about  in 
life,  and  that  we  must  meet  them.  The  situations 
created  for  us,  whether  by  madmen  or  not — we  must 
meet  them.  In  a  way  fitting  and  proper.  We  find 
we  have  duties  that  we  never  thought  to  have.  And 
somehow,  we  drive  through.  .  .  .  That's  what  you 
and  I  must  try  to  do." 


478  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

He  drew  in  his  breath  sharply. 

"I  don't  know  just  how  we're  going  to  make  it. 
I  can't  see  ahead — who  can?  But  one  thing  at  a 
time;  and  let  the  rest  wait  till  we  come  to  it.  We'll 
go  back:  that's  understood,  of  course.  We'll  try  to 
begin  as  we  were  going  to  begin,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  How  we'll  make  out,  who  can  say?  I 
don't  mean  between  ourselves.  It's  the  others.  ..." 

For  an  instant  his  features  were  quite  disorganized. 
He  regained  control  of  them. 

"It's  the  others,  naturally.  .  .  ." 

He  squared  his  shoulders,  and  raised  his  chin,  in  a 
defiance  that  cost  him  she  knew  well  how  much. 
And  his  voice  rang  out: 

"Let  them  all  go  hang!  We'll  drive  through  it, 
and  judge  what's  right  for  ourselves!" 

He  had  reached  perhaps  the  finest  moment  of  his 
life. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  turned  away,  to 
look  across  the  sea,  westward,  as  she  had  looked 
so  often,  with  such  longing,  in  those  first  days  on 
Torregiante.  She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  Vincent.  Never  that.  You  are  brave. 
You  are  very  brave,  even  though  you  can't  know, 
to-day,  all  that  you're  braving.  But  I  shall  never 
call  your  bravery  to  a  harder  test.  You  must  go 
back  to  England  alone.  You  must  return  to  the 
rational  world,  and  be  a  part  of  it,  unimpaired  in  any 
way  for  intercourse  with  it.  For  by  the  force  of  des- 
tiny you've  always  been,  and  you  always  must  be,  a 
part  of  it.  You  have  a  splendid  name  to  hand  on. 
It's  come  to  you  out  of  a  rational  world.  It  must 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  479 

be  passed  on  unaltered  by  contact  with  another 
sort.  You'll  marry  there,  safely,  in  the  midst  of 
that  world,  a  woman  who  has  never  emerged  from 
it.  Such  a  woman's  going  to  be  Countess  of  Lem- 
ster,  and  the  mother  of  your  children.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
I  know  whom.  Do  you  remember  a  ride  of  ours  in 
the  Borghese  Gardens,  and  your  telling  me  of  the 
girl  you  thought  you  loved,  before  you  met  me?" 

His  face  grew  pale.  What  unexpected  blow  had 
she  dealt  there? 

"But  now  that  I've  found  you  still  on  the  earth, 
am  I  to  resign  myself  to  losing  you  again?" 

Under  her  breath,  she  answered: 

"Did  you  ever  really  have  me?" 

Aloud,  however,  only  the  response,  as  her  thoughts 
went  back  to  the  northern  cliffs: 

"  Some  of  us  have  to  give  up  much,  to  escape  from 
life-long  misery.  ..." 

Doggedly  he  muttered: 

"I  can't  take  that  answer,  here  and  now,  you 
know.  You're  beyond  yourself  here.  Later " 

"No,  Vincent." 

He  looked  down  toward  the  harbor. 

"The  boat's  waiting,  steam  up.  How  long  will  it 
take  you  to  get  ready?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  get  ready,"  she  answered. 

She  gazed  round  her,  at  the  far-sweeping  amphi- 
theatre of  Torregiante,  the  great  golden-brown  peaks, 
the  gray-green  wooded  slopes,  the  dazzling  crescent 
of  the  village  far  below.  The  Isle  of  Life!  But  not 
as  she  had  learned  to  know  it.  For  now  the  world 


480  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

of  up  there  had  pervaded  it  and  altered  it.  Its  vivid 
naturalness  had  become  unreal.  Its  old  influences, 
the  secret  influences  that  had  been  like  sentient 
phantoms,  ever  gliding  closer,  through  sunlight  as 
well  as  starlight,  were  all  withdrawing,  before  this 
uncomprehending,  alien  invasion. 

"Then  we  go  now?"  he  asked. 

"As  you  wish.  .  .  ." 

And,  at  those  words  of  hers,  the  soul  of  Torre- 
giante  seemed  to  have  completed  its  withdrawal. 

Then  they  saw  Annibale  on  his  feet  beneath  the 
trees,  looking  from  them  toward  the  northern  thick- 
ets, and  back  again.  Sangallo  and  Sebastian  were 
approaching. 

Midway  between  the  thickets  and  the  villa,  Sebas- 
tian halted  in  the  open.  With  an  effort,  he  squared 
his  shoulders,  and  looked  at  Ghirlaine  and  Vincent 
with  his  old  calmness  and  inscrutability.  He  stood 
there,  in  the  sunlit  grassy  clearing,  like  a  man  stand- 
ing in  a  prison  court-yard,  his  peace  made,  beyond 
the  touch  of  every  form  of  recrimination,  waiting  to 
be  shot. 

Sangallo  came  forward  quickly.  He  was  looking 
at  Ghirlaine,  and  in  that  look  appeared  something 
like  an  intense  appeal  for  pardon.  With  a  jerk, 
Vincent  transferred  his  red  stare  from  Sebastian  to 
Sangallo. 

"We  go  at  once." 

"Ah!" 

"Ghirlaine!" 

She  nodded,  perfectly  white.    Almost  inaudibly: 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  481 

"  First  I  must  say  good-by  to  the  people  who  have 
been  kind  to  me." 

She  went  into  the  house. 

"I  am  going  away,  Fannia." 

But  when  she  took  the  baby  into  her  arms,  the 
tears  began  to  rain. 

"Good-by.  .  .  .  Good-by.  .  .  ." 

She  kissed  the  little  neck,  and  Fannia's  cheeks. 
She  paused  at  the  door  of  her  own  room.  The  night 
of  the  tempest  returned  to  her.  And  the  night  of  the 
cholera  mob.  And  all  the  other  nights.  An  empty 
room,  bare,  poor,  but  thronged  with  how  many 
strange,  new  things! 

"Good-by.  .  .  ." 

Fannia  was  weeping,  violently,  savagely,  in  a  wild 
abandonment  to  amazed  despair.  Ghirlaine  had 
finally  to  leave  her  so,  crouching  on  her  knees  against 
the  wall,  the  baby  pressed  tight  against  her  breast, 
racked  by  long,  shivering  cries: 

"Oh,  Madrecidda!  .  .  .  Oh,  Madrecidda!  .  .  ." 

"Good-by,  Annibale.  .  .  ." 

His  bewildered  eyes  searched  hers.  He  made  no 
reply.  But  she  felt  that  a  faithful  dog  would  look  just 
so,  when  left  without  explanation  for  the  last  tune. 

Her  gaze  turned  to  Sebastian.  She  went  toward 
him  suddenly  across  the  grass. 

Vincent  made  one  step;  but  Sangallo  took  him  by 
the  arm.  So,  when  she  stood  before  the  other,  none 
were  close  enough  to  hear  their  words. 

"Good-by." 

His  glistening  face  was  covered  with  a  bluish  pal- 


482  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

lor,  cut  deeply  with  new  lines — the  visage  of  a  soul, 
and  of  a  body,  in  torment.  But  at  her  words,  his 
eyes  brightened  with  a  great  light. 

"You  forgive  me!" 

His  mouth  twitched  spasmodically,  as  he  looked 
down  into  that  transfigured  countenance  of  hers. 

"Yes.    I  must  forgive  you." 

"I  know.    To  be  yourself." 

"Good-by.  .  .  ." 

She  returned  to  the  others. 

"Come,  then,"  said  Sangallo  to  Vincent  Pamfort. 
But  that  one,  setting  his  jaws,  responded: 

"Not  till  I've  had  my  word  with  him.  Not  till 
he  knows  I'm  coming  back,  as  soon  as  we've  taken 
her  to  Naples." 

Sangallo  smiled  sadly,  as  he  glanced  from  Vincent 
to  Sebastian. 

"When  you  come  back — not  now.  I'm  returning, 
too,  as  soon  as  possible.  You  can  come  with  me,  if 
you  like." 

The  three  descended  the  hillside. 

When  they  had  nearly  reached  the  clearing  on  the 
slope,  Sebastian  came  to  the  edge,  with  heavy  feet, 
and  stood  watching  them.  The  light  coats,  the 
white  dress,  showed  through  the  trees.  They  trav- 
ersed the  clearing  without  looking  back.  Presently 
they  emerged  on  the  lower  hillside  strewn  with  bowl- 
ders. At  last,  they  crossed  the  esplanade.  A  rowing- 
boat  took  them  to  the  yacht. 

From  the  portico,  he  watched  the  white  yacht 
round  the  headland. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  483 

From  the  northern  cliffs  he  saw  it  grow  small  on 
the  bright  water,  and  finally  vanish. 

She  was  gone. 

He  made  his  way  back  toward  the  villa.  Half-way 
through  the  thickets  his  will  power  collapsed,  and  he 
began  to  stagger.  For  a  time  he  stood  still,  gripping 
the  thick  vines  all  festooned  with  roses,  striving  to 
keep  erect,  grinding  his  teeth  together.  After  a  long 
while,  he  went  on,  leaning  forward,  his  mouth  open, 
gasping,  his  face  streaming,  his  body  shaken  by  tre- 
mors. 

On  the  summit,  he  lurched  to  the  left,  and  plunged 
down  the  hill-path  toward  the  village. 

His  shoulders  carromed  from  the  tree-trunks. 
The  roots  and  rocks  caught  at  his  feet,  and  sent  him 
stumbling.  He  went  on  at  a  sort  of  shambling  run, 
to  keep  from  sinking  down. 

Near  the  end  of  the  descent,  he  crashed  forward 
on  his  knees.  Everything  whirled  round,  and  dis- 
appeared in  darkness.  Through  the  darkness  he 
saw  strange  shapes  and  faces,  grotesque  yet  half 
familiar,  repulsive  and  beautiful  by  turns,  and  al- 
ways changing.  For  ages  he  knelt  there,  arms  stiff, 
his  knuckles  braced  against  the  rocks,  while  those 
altering  shapes,  at  once  ghastly  and  exquisite,  fair 
and  loathsome,  thronged  about  him. 

"The  shapes  of  old  crimes.  .  .  ." 

Suddenly,  he  shouted: 

"Not  here,  like  a  dog!  .  .  ." 

He  gathered  together  all  his  strength  for  one  last 
effort,  such  as  perhaps  not  another  man  in  a  hundred 


484  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

could  have  put  forth  then.  He  wrenched  himself 
erect,  swayed  forward,  and  went  on,  with  outspread 
arms,  going  blind  on  his  feet,  the  village  before  him 
rising  into  the  skies,  then  sinking  back  to  earth. 

He  was  on  the  esplanade.  A  patch  of  white  at- 
tracted him.  Many  people  were  running  and  chat- 
tering. Some  cried  out  at  him. 

The  patch  of  white  drew  near.  He  perceived,  in 
the  midst  of  whirling  lights,  a  long  nose,  and  the  gray 
mustaches  and  peaked  beard  of  a  cavalier.  An  arm 
strove  to  hold  him  up,  but  he  kept  sinking  down. 

He  heard  his  own  voice  muttering: 

"I've  got  it.  .  .  .  Give  me  a  bed.  .  .  .  No  opium. 
.  .  .  That's  exploded.  ...  In  the  Hamburg  epi- 
demic. .  .  ." 

He  dropped  through  the  doctor's  arms,  and  rolled 
out  his  full  length  on  the  esplanade.  A  hush  de- 
scended. It  seemed  unbelievable  to  all,  shocking, 
as  it  were  against  reason,  that  this  great  figure  should 
be  lying  flat,  at  last,  like  any  other. 

They  carried  him  to  the  parish-house:  and  all  Tor- 
regiante  followed  behind  the  stretcher. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ONE  afternoon,  almost  two  months  from  the  day 
of  her  departure,  Sebastian  Maure,  bony  and  still 
colorless  in  his  white  flannels,  was  sitting  in  a  wicker 
long-chair,  in  the  portico  of  the  villa  on  the  western 
headland  of  Torregiante,  reading  a  letter  from  San- 
gallo.  It  was  steam-ship  day:  and  Annibale  had  just 
brought  this  missive  up  from  town,  with  another, 
postmarked  "Constantinople,"  which  Sebastian  had 
not  yet  opened.  The  mail  delivered,  the  young  man, 
finding  that  his  master  required  nothing,  had  gone 
round  the  house  to  join  Fannia  and  the  baby. 

At  that  moment  old  Ilario  was  visiting  on  the  hill- 
top, as  befitted  a  father-in-law  of  three  weeks'  legal 
standing.  He  had  brought  up  a  cake,  prepared  in 
the  Syndic's  cook-shop,  covered  with  daubs  of  pink 
and  lilac  sugar,  and  inscribed,  for  no  apparent  rea- 
son, in  sugar  writing,  "Ewiva  Maria  Vergine"  Now 
he  was  feeding  small  fragments  of  this  confection  to 
the  baby,  while  drowning  out  his  daughter's  protests 
with  profanity. 

"Blood  of  all  the  Saints!  And  what  do  you  know 
about  the  needs  of  children?  A  hen  hatched  one 
chicken  and  said  to  the  goats:  'Eccu!  I  am  full  of 
experience.  In  the  spring,  if  you  need  a  wise  head, 
call  on  me ! " 

"  But,  babba,  I  tell  you  that  sugar  and  jelly  aren't 
good  for  such  little  stomachs." 

485 


486  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"Mah!  And  what  did  you  eat  at  his  age?  At 
his  age,  your  stomach  was  a  museum!  Here — a  pink 
piece!  Is  it  good?  It  ought  to  be.  It  cost  me 
nearly  a  lira,  and  a  good  half-hour  of  bargaining 
with  a  proper  brigand!" 

"No  more,  babba,  for  charity!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  The  name  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin  is  written  all  over  it !  What  harm  can 
it  do  him  then,  anyway?  Sacrilegious  hussy!  Now 
leave  me  alone,  for  God's  sake,  or  I'll  have  to  take 
a  hand  to  you.  This  is  my  grandson." 

Sebastian  returned  to  his  letter. 

I  am  at  work  again,  fortified  by  those  long  talks  of  ours  in 
Torregiante  during  your  convalescence,  full  of  gladness  at  the 
thought  that  if  I  had  not  returned  to  you  as  soon  as  I  did,  noth- 
ing might  have  roused  in  you  the  determination  to  pull  through. 
For  a  long  time,  I  had  felt  a  powerful  inclination  to  be  of  service 
to  you.  I  had,  all  the  while,  an  impression  that  such  a  time 
must  come.  This  is  one  more  of  those  inexplicable  things.  .  .  . 

In  respect  of  another,  I  had  the  same  feeling,  in  Rome,  during 
the  season,  before  all  this  came  about.  Have  I  failed  on  that 
side?  Must  I  always  reproach  myself  that  I  acted  a  poor  party 
perhaps  a  monstrous  part,  toward  her,  in  listening,  as  long  as  I 
did,  to  what  I  told  you  of,  that  day  of  my  first  arrival  ?  The  two 
dilemmas  were  interwoven  so  closely.  At  one  moment  it  would 
seem  as  if  I  had  not  arrived  nearly  soon  enough ;  at  another,  as 
if  I'd  arrived  too  soon.  Who  knows,  as  yet  ?  Nothing  is  ever 
finished. 

She  is  in  France.  I  must  tell  you  that  poor  Mrs.  Bellamy, 
who  met  her  there,  is  dead.  She  died  in  Paris  of  ptomaine- 
poisoning.  She  had  insisted  on  eating  some  oysters  imported 
from  America.  One  might  say  that  she  succumbed  a  martyr  to 
her  persistent  patriotism.  Poor  woman,  I  am  not  making  a 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  487 

jest  about  it.  It  is  Fate  that  is  the  grim  jester,  in  planting  in  us 
front  the  first  the  predilections,  however  trifling  some  of  them 
may  seem,  that  bring  us  gradually  but  inexorably  to  our  supreme 
crises.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bellamy  is  buried  in  Pere-Lachaise  Cemetery,  and  her 
niece  is  with  the  Montlherys,  now,  at  their  chateau. 

She  has  sent  Lemster  back  to  England.  I  understand  she  has 
no  more  close  relations  left.  She  must  be  so  lonely;  though  in 
the  letter  I  had  from  her,  telling  of  Mrs.  Bellamy's  death,  she 
said  nothing  of  that.  .  .  . 

Don  Livio  Campobasso  is  still  across  the  Channel.  On  the 
Twelfth,  he  went  up  into  Scotland  for  the  shooting.  Princess 
Betty  has  been  on  the  Lake  of  Garda,  much  by  herself.  (Did  I 
tell  you  that  Tito  made  it  right  with  his  Colonel,  and  that  his  regi- 
ment has  gone  to  Brescia  ?)  Well,  at  Garda,  who  should  drop  in 
from  the  clouds  to  take  tea  with  Princess  Betty  but  Mme.  Sema- 
deni.  She  was  on  her  way,  as  she  told  me  afterward  in  Turin, 
from  Florence  to  Milan.  A  roundabout  way!  At  any  rate,  she 
stayed  not  only  to  tea,  but  two  days  longer.  The  morning  after 
she  left,  Princess  Campobasso  set  out  for  Scotland.  She  joined 
Don  Livio  there,  and  they  are  together  there  now.  What  a  good 
woman  that  Russian  is,  beneath  her  affectation  of  languor  and 
melancholy  !  A nd,  for  that  matter,  under  Don  Livio' s  impassive- 
ness  tJtere  must  be  more  of  unconventional  comprehension  than 
one  might  think. 

But  there  is  stranger  news  than  that.  Andreas  Romanovitch 
is  going  to  marry  Donna  Dora  Brazzazza. 

He  discovered  at  last  that  the  poor  child  was  in  love  with  him. 
And,  as  he  wrote  me  from  the  Brazzazzas'  place  in  Umbria,  she 
had  seen  so  much  in  life,  from  her  wheel-chair,  that  she  could 
never  have!  "  //  was,"  according  to  him, "  the  supreme  chance  for 
a  worthless  fellow  to  justify  his  existence.  Besides,"  he  told  me, 
"  I  was  ripe  for  the  gentle,  almost  incorporeal  comradeship  that 
offered  itself  tfiere.  In  serving  that  white  little  lily,  I  shall  surely 
regain  the  age  of  innocence.  To  have  fallen  in  love  with  inviO' 
lable  purity  is  a  miracle  far  greater  than  I  deserved." 

So,  at  least,  he  says,  in  his  first  exaltation.    I  am  not  saying  he 


488  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

will  fed  just  so  always — or  for  very  long  I  Or,  indeed,  that  he  will 
need  to!  For  Donna  Dora  is  rather  marvellously  changing  since 
the  engagement.  It  would  seem  as  if  new  powers  had  begun  to 
flow  to  her  simultaneously  with  that  new  joy.  She  is  stronger: 
and  just  the  other  day,  between  Don  Giulio  and  Mme.  de  Chau- 
mont,  for  a  moment  she  stood  erect,  without  faltering.  What 
was  it  ?  Resignation  giving  way  before  the  roused  fundamental 
forces?  Her  will  to  be  a  wife?  It  may  go  no  farther,  of 
course.  But  at  Lourdes,  for  instance,  strange  things  have  been 
accomplished  by  a  supreme,  intrinsically  right  desire  of  the 
heart. 

In  effect,  we  live  in  a  miraculous  world. 

Write  to  me  about  how  you  are  doing,  and  what  you  intend  to 
do.  .  .  . 

Sebastian  laid  the  letter  in  his  lap,  and  looked  out 
on  Torregiante. 

Heights  and  lowlands,  all  softly  mellow  in  the  after- 
noon sunshine,  lay  drowsing  in  siesta.  The  groves 
formed  round  the  amphitheatre  of  the  slopes  a  great 
zone  of  peaceful,  immobile  green.  Below,  about  the 
semicircle  of  the  beach,  the  village,  freed  of  all  alien 
influences,  itself  once  more,  curved  like  a  golden  chain 
against  the  sapphire  sea  from  which  every  flaw  was 
smoothed  away.  And  the  intense  silence  of  Nature 
— a  silence  not  of  emptiness,  but  of  a  teeming,  yet 
ineffably  subtle  and  serene  activity — rose  round  the 
headland  like  the  mute  expression  of  a  limitless  Soul. 

Presently,  from  the  northern  uplands,  came  a  faint 
droning.  He  had  heard  that  sound  frequently  of 
late.  The  hermit  was  walking  in  the  groves,  and 
singing  as  he  walked.  .  .  . 

He  got  up  slowly  from  his  chair,  and  entered  the 
house.  At  the  threshold  of  her  room,  he  paused, 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  489 

swung  the  door  open,  and  looked  in.  Everything 
was  as  if  she  had  just  left  it.  Her  dresses  hung 
against  the  walls,  enshrouded  with  figured  chintz. 
The  chest  of  drawers  was  laid  with  glistening  toilet 
articles  in  orderly  array.  On  the  bed  was  spread 
Fannia's  coperta  del  letto  malrimoniale.  The  candle- 
sticks held  new  candles,  the  fireplace  a  heap  of  resin- 
ous boughs.  And  there  were  fresh  flowers  by  the 
mirror — the  sorts  she  had  touched  most  often  on 
the  terrace. 

He  shut  the  door  gently  on  this  garnished  place 
of  memories,  and  returned  to  the  long-chair  in  the 
portico.  Presently  he  remembered  the  letter  from 
Constantinople. 

It  was  written  on  half  a  sheet  of  cross-barred  cafe 
paper,  in  ill-spelled  French. 

I  have  the  honor  to  inform  Monsieur  that  the  letters  to  Dis- 
nisius  Pappachzistos  were  evidently  not  answered  by  him  because 
not  called  for,  as  he  is  lately  deceased  in  Balikisri,  at  the  hands  of 
an  old  friend,  a  rich  man,  who  has  proved  self-defence  to  the  satis- 
faction of  the  law. 

Hoping  to  serve  Monsieur  another  time  again,  with  humble  evi- 
dences of  my  most  distinguished  consideration,  N.  Fahreddin, 
Manager  of  Cafe  Osmanlie,  new  management  and  chef,  private 
rooms  lately  refurnished. 

"So  Disnisius,  the  matchlessly  anticipating  ser- 
vant to  the  end,  anticipated  even  his  dismissal!" 

He  tore  up  the  note,  and  dropped  the  fragments 
into  the  bottle-socket  of  the  long-chair.  He  looked 
up,  to  see  Don  Vigilio's  unkempt  flat  beaver  hat  ris- 
ing to  the  hilltop. 


490  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

Jumping  to  his  feet,  Sebastian  hurried  forward, 
and  took  the  old  man  by  the  hands. 

"But  what  are  you  thinking  of,  Padre!  So  long 
a  climb,  in  the  very  heat  of  the  day!" 

When  the  priest  had  sat  down,  mopped  his  fore- 
head and  tonsure  with  a  bandanna  handkerchief,  and 
recovered  his  breath,  he  answered: 

"My  son,  I  heard  that  letters  had  come  for  you. 
In  our  village,  we're  such  incorrigible  busybodies! 
I  thought  you  might  have  got  news  of  the  great 
world  up  yonder.  Some  sort  of  good  news,  per- 
haps." 

He  peered  at  Sebastian  out  of  his  watery  eyes, 
his  perpetual  thin  smile  somewhat  unsteady. 

"So  I  said  to  myself,  'No  exertion  could  be  too 
much,  that  leads  to  the  sharing  of  good  news? ' ' 

"Well,  you  were  right.  There  was  good  news  in 
my  letter." 

"And?" 

Sebastian  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  thinking  again  of  the  impos- 
sible." 

They  were  silent. 

Don  Vigilio  blew  his  nose  emphatically. 

"I  have  a  message  for  you  from  Little  Paganni." 

"Really?" 

"Here  it  is:  'Tell  my  friend  the  Signuri  that  my 
birthday  is  to-morrow.  We're  going  to  have  meat 
to  eat.  If  he  cares  to  look  in,  let  him  say  so  without 
compliment,  and  I'll  borrow  another  plate  from  fat 
Maria.'" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  491 

Sebastian  laughed  outright — for  the  first  time  in 
two  months. 

"  He  said  that?  Little  rascal !  And  so  I  will,  with 
a  cake  of  seven  pink  candles,  and  frosted-sugar  or- 
naments hi  the  Syndic's  best  manner!  .  .  .  Padre, 
what  are  we  going  to  do  with  that  boy?" 

"We  must  give  him  his  chance,  to  be  sure.  We 
must  show  him  where  the  world  stands,  these  days. 
Then  we  must  let  him  choose  his  place  in  it." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  we  must  let  him  choose  that  for 
himself!" 

"Have  no  fear.  One  who  has  really  been  shown 
that  truth  always  chooses  well." 

Out  from  the  harbor,  across  the  clear  blue  water, 
a  small  sail-boat  was  gliding,  its  lateen-sail  translu- 
cent amber,  its  hull  and  spars  pale-blue.  Close  to 
its  bow,  on  the  azure  hull,  there  showed  a  dot  of 
white — a  painted  eye,  so  that  the  fragile  craft  could 
safely  see  its  way.  Just  so  the  boats  of  the  ancients 
had  been  adorned,  in  the  far-off  dawn  of  civilization. 
In  Torregiante,  little,  after  all,  had  changed  in  all 
those  centuries. 

Said  Sebastian: 

"It  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  back-waters  of  the  world, 
that  the  current  has  passed  by.  But  if  it  hadn't 
been  so,  then  the  something  different  that  it  contains 
wouldn't  be  here  still,  to  reach  us  others?  A  curious 
thing,  that  those  who  have  always  been  here  never 
feel  it,  that  one  must  have  come  from  without  for 
that!" 

"There  is  nothing  we  are  so  ignorant  of  as  what 
we  have  always  lived  with." 


492  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

The  pale-blue  sail-boat  glided  on  toward  the  open 
sea.  In  the  glassy,  deep-blue  water  it  left  a  waver- 
ing thin  wake,  of  lighter  hue,  of  the  color  of  itself. 
Watching  it,  Don  Vigilio  mused: 

"  So  we  go  on  and  on,  leaving  our  unsteady  wake, 
into  the  infinite.  All  our  idleness  in  becalmments, 
all  our  tossing  in  tempests,  have  been  incidents,  to 
try  us.  We  are  the  unsinkable  vessel,  the  unalter- 
able, immortal  ship,  always  emerging,  always  faring 
on  into  the  infinite.  It  isn't  we  who  can  see  that  har- 
bor yet,  for  all  our  painted  eyes.  But  we  go  toward 
it,  nevertheless.  We  go  toward  it,  that  is  certain!" 

His  quavering  voice  ceased — the  voice  of  a  gen- 
tleman, uttering  those  words  with  the  accent  and 
intonation  of  Rome,  of  the  great  world  even,  of 
regions  of  high  birth  and  cultivation.  Who  had  he 
been?  Why  was  he  here? 

Sebastian  fancied  that  he  knew  at  least  why  Don 
Vigilio  was  here.  But  who  he  had  been  no  doubt 
he  would  never  know.  He  would  never  ask :  and  the 
old  priest  would  hardly  be  likely  to  enlighten  him. 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Sebastian,  "now  for  a  while 
we'll  go  forward  without  much  wavering.  We  know 
what  we  have  to  do,  here  in  Torregiante.  You  have 
tried.  But  we  live  in  a  material  world,  and  our 
bodies  and  their  welfare  must  be  the  foundation  for 
the  rest.  For  that  part,  fortunately  I  happen  to  be 
rich." 

He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  village. 

"We  must  change  all  that.  To  begin  with,  we 
must  teach  these  people  how  to  live  physically.  I 
owe  the  first  respectable  work  of  my  life  to  Torre- 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  493 

giante,  for  in  Torregiante  I  first  learned  what  money 
and  brains  are  meant  for.  Afterward  ...  But  one 
thing  at  a  time." 

Then,  for  a  long  while  they  talked  of  practical 
things.  The  afternoon  drew  on.  The  rocky  heights 
began  to  assume  a  warmer  light.  On  the  terrace, 
among  the  flowers,  the  bees  were  finishing  their  busi- 
ness. The  old  man  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
sighed. 

"How  beautiful  it  is  up  here!  I  hardly  have  the 
heart  to  forego  the  sunset." 

"You're  going  to  stay  on  to  dinner.  Ilario  will 
take  word  to  the  parish-house  that  you're  not  com- 
ing. This  evening,  when  the  moon  is  up,  Annibale 
will  see  you  home." 

"Well,  I  don't  say  no.  The  sunset  from  this 
headland " 

"And  a  mullet  baked  in  onions,  mushrooms,  and 
tomatoes " 

"Eh,  tempter!  That  wasn't  necessary — but  it 
settles  it." 

"And  now  I'll  leave  you  to  a  nap.  You  might 
read  yourself  to  sleep.  Here's  Kant,  and  Sainte- 
Beuve,  and  Anatole  France,  and  Flaubert,  and  Car- 
lyle,  and  Spinoza,  and  Alphonse  Allais." 

"Diamine!  .  .  .  What  would  you  say  if  I  chose 
— Anatole  France?" 

"Good  enough!    So,  arrividirci." 

11  Arrividirci,  my  friend." 

Sebastian  went  out  into  the  ruddy  sunset. 

He  took  the  path  through  the  tangle  of  tree- 


494  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

limbs,  vines,  and  roses  to  the  northern  side.  He 
walked  along  the  cliff-path,  came  to  the  little  valley, 
approached  the  temple. 

From  round  it  the  sunlight  had  withdrawn  already. 
The  enclosing  foliage,  its  upper  part  still  filtering  the 
crimson  light,  was  thick,  below,  with  purple  shadows. 
The  ancient  ruin,  hazy  behind  the  first  diaphanous 
veils  of  dusk,  raised  its  mossy  walls  and  flower- 
covered  roof,  softened  to  serious  hues  of  green  and 
violet,  like  something  familiar  yet  wonderfully  new, 
worn  yet  imperishable.  Silence  enclosed  it.  The 
birds,  the  bees,  the  breeze,  were  gone.  From  the 
purple-black  doorway  no  slightest  sound  came  forth. 
The  voices  of  the  Old  Ones  were  still. 

After  a  time,  he  went  inside.  Total  darkness  en- 
veloped him:  but  he  did  not  strike  a  light. 

He  stood  before  the  low  altar  to  "the  Unknown 
God,"  grasping  its  edges,  looking  up  toward  where 
the  inscription  was  carved  across  the  wall.  And,  as 
though  his  eyes  could  read  it,  he  repeated  once  more: 

"To  reach  my  altar,  that  part  of  you  which  you 
have  loved  best  must  be  destroyed." 

Had  he  not  done  that,  indeed? 

And  from  the  ashes  of  that  destruction  had  there 
not  risen  a  fair,  white  thing,  that  did  not  pass  away, 
but  hovered  before  him,  in  light  and  darkness,  con- 
tinually, like  the  reflection  of  a  star? 

"But  when  shall  I  be  satisfied  to  see  only  the  re- 
flection? Never?" 

The  echoes  sprang  back  at  him: 

"Never!" 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  495 

And,  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness,  he  seemed  to 
see  Saint  Giosue,  as  in  the  antique  painting  in  the 
church,  clad  in  a  rough  brown  robe,  but  with  an  ex- 
pression which  that  painting  did  not  show — an  ex- 
pression of  bafflement  and  failure.  And  the  lips  of 
Saint  Giosue  seemed  to  move,  and  utter,  in  the  voice 
of  old  John  Elzevir: 

"Man  is  but  a  part  of  himself,  and  woman  is  the 
other  part.  For  that  is  Nature.  ..." 

And  the  sanctuary  was  suddenly,  as  it  were, 
thronged  with  thoughts  in  affirmation,  with  the 
thoughts  of  innumerable  presences — as  if  the  minds 
of  a  myriad  departed  beings  had  been  conjured  back 
by  this  illumination,  to  confirm  it,  in  this  spot  where 
they  had  reached  then*  highest  exaltations,  their 
most  sublime  and  true  perceptions. 

Then,  after  a  while,  he  became  aware  that  he  was 
not  alone. 

Some  one  was  standing  near  him  in  the  darkness. 

A  voice,  low  and  tremulous : 

"Sebastian?" 

He  whirled  round,  his  heart  in  his  throat.  Two 
hands  found  his  arms,  and  held  them  fast.  A  fault 
perfume  reached  him,  how  poignantly  familiar! 

And  the  low  tremulous  voice  spoke  again  out  of  the 
darkness : 

"  I  went  to  the  villa.  .  .  .  Only  Don  Vigilio  asleep. 
.  .  .  Something  told  me  you  had  come  here.  .  .  . 
I  was  alone.  I  had  come  all  the  way  alone.  No  one 
knew  I  was  coming.  No  one  knows  where  I  am.  .  .  . 
No  one  knows  what  I  have  in  my  heart. 


496  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

"The  *  rational  world'!  It's  up  there,  across  the 
sea.  I  couldn't  stay  in  it.  They  were  good,  but 
like  shadows — kind  shadows,  that  I  hardly  saw  or 
heard.  All  the  while  I  saw  the  rocks  and  the  jungles 
thick  with  roses,  and  the  sunset  on  the  peaks — this 
other  world,  the  'irrational  world,'  that  seemed  to 
me  the  only  rational  one.  The  color  and  sounds  and 
scents  of  the  place  where  one  awoke  at  last!  For  it 
was  here  that  I  awoke. 

"  But  even  from  the  beginning !  From  the  first  mo- 
ment! Something  stirred  hi  me.  And  I  was  horri- 
fied, and  fought  against  it.  Yet  that  was  necessary 
— all  the  uprising  of  defence,  all  the  struggling,  and 
the  long  reluctance.  It  was  all  necessary.  Other- 
wise, there  would  have  been  no  change.  And  we 
were  meant  from  the  beginning  to  change  each  other. 
To  awaken  each  other.  To  make  each  other  live. 
...  So  we  were  brought  here,  to  this  Isle  of 
Life. 

"Up  there  I  understood  it  at  last.  I  realized  that 
I'd  found  what  I  had  always  been  seeking.  That 
all  the  anguish  had  only  been  leading  me  on  toward 
it.  That  we're  like  little  children,  learning  painfully, 
who  can't  see  the  object  of  their  lessons,  or  the  re- 
ward. .  .  . 

"All  my  life  I've  felt  that  in  the  world  there's  but 
one  man  for  one  woman,  one  woman  for  one  man. 
That  they  two  should  meet,  at  last,  as  if  on  a  wind- 
swept mountain-top,  all  the  world's  ignoble  rumors 
inaudible  far  below. 

"The  world!    The  world's  what  we  choose  it  to 


THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE  497 

be.  Above  a  certain  point,  there  is  no  need  of  cour- 
age. One  feels  a  touch  of  immortality.  One  greets 
one's  destiny  with  open  arms." 

Her  arms  went  round  his  neck.  He  felt  her  warm 
breath  on  his  face.  He  heard  her  whispering: 

"  I  love  you.  While  I  hated  you  I  loved  you.  All 
the  while,  there  was  something  in  you  reaching  out 
toward  me,  something,  amid  all  the  rest,  that  was 
different  from  the  rest,  that  my  soul  seemed  to  rec- 
ognize beneath  its  encumbrances,  that  I  was  forced 
to  love.  And  as  the  encumbrances  began  to  fall 
away,  as  that  part  of  you  stood  forth  more  clearly, 
I  loved  you  more.  And  at  last  I  saw  nothing  else. 
Only  that.  .  .  . 

"Now  I  love  you  completely." 

Her  lips  reached  his.  She  clung  to  him  like  a 
creature  all  afire.  She  had,  indeed,  awaked  at  last. 
The  world  dissolved;  and  they  rose  together  into  the 
eternal  spaces.  .  .  . 

Outside  the  temple,  night  had  fallen.  The  trees 
stood  forth  hi  drooping  silhouettes  of  purple  against 
the  water.  Toward  the  horizon,  the  sea  disappeared 
in  silvery  blankness,  in  which  a  black  spot,  the  little 
fishing-boat,  appeared  and  vanished,  appeared  and 
vanished.  Close  together,  they  still  watched  for  it, 
when  the  sea  had  faded  and  concealed  it.  And  at 
last,  near  where  they  had  last  seen  it,  a  tiny  point  of 
flame  glowed  forth. 

"It  still  goes  forward." 

"Yes,  it  still  goes  forward.  .  .  ." 

They  returned  to  the  villa. 


498  THE  ISLE  OF  LIFE 

In  the  dusky  portico,  Don  Vigilio  was  sleeping, 
his  calm  old  face  upturned,  his  hands  open,  the  book 
slipping  from  his  knees.  Sebastian  looked  into  her 
eyes. 

"Shall  we  wake  him?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  they  went  down  through 
the  black  roses  of  the  terrace  to  the  brink. 

Lights  were  springing  up  in  Torregiante  village. 
Round  the  beach  they  formed  a  glittering  crescent. 
Never  had  the  innumerable  southern  stars  appeared 
more  brilliant.  Behind  the  thin,  black  bell- tower  of 
the  church  the  moon  was  rising. 

"The  heavens  are  putting  out  their  highest  beauty 
for  your  home-coming." 

The  first  moonbeams,  reaching  across  sea  and  land, 
rested  on  her  face. 

"  My  home-coming ! " 

Pressing  against  his  arm,  she  murmured,  in  a  voice 
choked  with  tears: 

"Our  Isle!     If  only  all  could  find  their  Isle!" 

And  presently: 

"I  think  they  will.  Sooner  or  later.  Surely,  all 
must  find  it,  sooner  or  later?  ..." 

When  the  moon  stood  higher,  and  everywhere  was 
soft  enchantment,  they  went  back  slowly,  through 
veils  of  silver,  to  the  villa. 


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